One Shot Wonders
by Jennifer Wand
Summary: These are short stories, drabbles, and one-shots written over the past year, featuring Matt, Mohinder, and Molly; they are not related to one another and each part should be readable alone.
1. This Is Home

**One-Shot Wonders**

Short stories, drabbles, and one-shots featuring Matt, Mohinder, and Molly

by Jennifer Rubio (nee Wand)

--

**This Is Home**

_Rated R_

_Set after 2x05, "Fight or Flight." Matt comes home from Philadelphia to his fledgling relationship with Mohinder._

When Matt returned, Mohinder was pouring hot water into the second of two mugs on the kitchen table. A teabag poked out of one; the other was empty, but an array of teas were spread out in a fan nearby. He turned and smiled pleasantly. "Welcome back."

It wasn't at all the homecoming Matt expected. He closed the door behind him, took off his jacket, and scratched his head. "Uh, thanks."

"I made some tea," Mohinder said, his voice a little too animated. "I wasn't sure which kind you'd want to drink after your flight. That is, if you'd like tea at all. So I brought out a few--" Their eyes met and his voice faltered. "Oh, to hell with it." The kettle went down with a thud as Mohinder flew across the room and pushed Matt into the door, lips seeking his in an ecstatic kiss. Matt stared for a moment, then wrapped his arms around that slender waist, closing his eyes tight and pressing their bodies together.

Mohinder murmured aloud at the contact, and the kiss became fierce. His balance seemed to vanish and he toppled into Matt, trusting the door and those strong arms to hold him. When he finally had to gasp for breath, it was with regret. "I didn't think I would miss you this much," he said with some sadness, touching Matt's face with one delicate hand.

"It's good to be home," Matt said, nuzzling his ear. He breathed in deep that scent that had become so familiar and dear to him. This _was_ home.

A few minutes later, they were acting like civilized people again, sitting across from each other at the kitchen table. Matt had chosen an herbal cinnamon blend, and its cloying sweetness was filling the room and quite overpowering Mohinder's chamomile. It felt comforting and safe to be here, among the familiar pots and pans and knick-knacks of home, and Matt could already feel the tension of the previous days' travails draining away. "So, no change, then?" he asked.

Mohinder shook his head over the dingy green teacup. "I've spoken to three of the on-site medical specialists, but they all say they can't get through to her," he sighed. "I really think that tracking down your father and forcing him to release her is our only chance at this point."

"Well, if he's targeting your boss, that shouldn't take long," Matt said. "The tracking down part, that is... the forcing might be harder." He leaned forward as if speaking in confidence, although there were only the two of them in the small apartment. "I think I might be able to fight off his power. I was able to break free. But I think I need more practice, and we may not have the time."

"So what do you propose?" Mohinder asked.

"The Company. It might have something. Or someone. Who can help me. Train me. Teach me to use my power better." Mohinder looked skeptical, and Matt sighed. "Look, I don't like how much we're having to depend on them. But if my dad's killing people and they can help me stop him, I don't see what other choice we've got. He has to be stopped."

"I know," said Mohinder, resigned. "I just wish--"

"He_has_ to be stopped," Matt repeated, glowering. "You want to help Molly, don't you?"

"Of course I do!" burst out Mohinder. "I'll do anything to bring her back. You know that. Don't you?"

"We'll both bring her back." Matt's hand covered Mohinder's on the tabletop. "And we're going to make sure she never has a nightmare again." Stormclouds darkened his brow. "No matter what it takes."

Mohinder's eyes widened. He recognized those dark clouds, and he was fairly sure he didn't like the way they looked on Matt's face. "I know," he said quietly. "Let's do our best to be the kind of parents she needs." He turned his hand upward to interlace his fingers with Matt's.

Matt gazed at him. In the dim light, the large, dark eyes were flickering with specks of amber the color of candlelight. They were like fireflies, and Matt found himself watching them, fascinated by their darting movements. His face softened into a smile. "Right," he said. "Thank you." Mohinder didn't have to ask for what.

They sat in silence for a time, hands joined on the tabletop, appreciating the warmth that their newfound connection brought to this unremarkable home they shared.

"You know," said Matt somewhat shyly, "I catch myself daydreaming a lot about what it'll be like when this is all over. I think about taking Molly to the zoo. The Statue of Liberty."

"Radio City Music Hall," mused Mohinder.

"Up to Boston, down to D.C-- maybe even Florida..."

"The space center..."

"I was thinking more along the lines of Disney World," admitted Matt.

"Look at us." Mohinder smiled suddenly. "We're acting like parents. Who would have thought, given the examples we've had?"

"Ha!" Matt grinned as though this were the funniest thing he'd ever heard. "Imagine that!"

"I guess there's hope for us after all," Mohinder grinned, taking Matt's empty teacup and wandering over to the sink.

"Mm-hm," Matt nodded his assent, leaning back in his chair and staring at the ceiling. Another blessed moment of quiet lingered, as though a white sheet had billowed down from the rafters, making everything clean and bright and fresh again.

"Matt?" Mohinder's back was still to him.

"Mm-hm?"

When there was no answer, Matt tilted his head toward the sink.

Mohinder turned around slowly. His eyes had slitted slightly and there was a flush in his cheeks. "I think-- I think it's time for bed."

"Oh, OK..." Matt got up with a loud groan, leaning over the back of his chair to stretch. "It's late, I guess..."

_No._

Matt paused in mid-stretch.

_I mean, it's time you took me to bed._

"Oh." Eyes widened, but only for a fraction of a second. "You don't have to tell me twice." He kicked his chair backwards and closed the distance between them with long, sure strides. Bending to kiss him, Matt ran anxious fingertips along his wrist and up to his shoulders, embracing him, hands on the small of his back. Mohinder was melting into him, fists on his chest grabbing handfuls of his shirt, curls of hair tickling Matt's forehead. Matt knew then just how badly Mohinder had been suppressing his desire, how much he'd fought to keep control. The idea that he could do that, provoke that reaction from a man who should be out of his league, drove him crazy. He leaned over, bending Mohinder backwards slightly so his back arched beneath Matt's palms.

Mohinder growled low in his throat and, with a burst of strength, reversed their positions to Matt was the one arching backward into the counter's edge, one leg thrust between Mohinder's in an impatient intimacy. He gasped at the sudden domination, pushing back a little, suddenly rock-hard and straining at Mohinder's thigh. He grabbed his face with both hands and kissed him deeply, ferociously. They broke apart only to pant, both winded from the intensity of the contact.

"I missed you, too," said Matt, amusement in his voice.

"Don't speak," begged Mohinder as their mouths found each other again.

They fumbled their awkwardly passionate way through the kitchen, Mohinder stepping backwards, one hand clinging to Matt and the other vainly groping for unseen obstacles. When they reached the edge of the living room, Mohinder's knees buckled around the end of the sofa, and he toppled backward, reflexively grabbing Matt with both hands, pulling him down on top of him. The sudden weight and heat of him seemed to turn Mohinder to molten gold. He was burning and flowing inside as though he were a forge on which a sword was being tempered.

Matt had found his throat and was not leaving anytime soon. Not when the odd lick just west or south of where it was expected, on skin so smooth and sensitive it was like shuddering velvet, seemed to pull forth such uninhibited, expressive, incoherent moans. And the best part of being in Mohinder's neck was that he could feel against his cheek the tautness of the man's jaw, which told him Mohinder was smiling. He loved to make him moan, but to make him smile was bliss beyond words.

"Matt-- ah--" Mohinder fought for coherence. "Hold on a second--"

"Shut up," muttered Matt into his neck.

"Matt, there's no _room_ here--"

"Cry me a river." In his shoulder, now, hands unbuttoning his shirt, uncovering inch after delicious inch of skin.

"Matt, for God's sake, I want to _enjoy_ this!" Somehow he managed to throw the larger man off him and sit up. His face was deep red, and his breaths came heavily and raggedly.

Matt looked a little shell-shocked at the sudden rejection. "What-- I'm sorry-- Did I--"

Mohinder smiled.

Matt had long ago decided that all of Mohinder's smiles were magical but that some were extraordinary. This one stunned him into silence.

Leaning forward onto his hands, Mohinder crawled across the couch to him. _Like a leopard,_ Matt thought. He couldn't move, couldn't speak, could barely breathe as Mohinder dipped his head into the crook of Matt's neck to whisper in his ear.

"We have all night. Nobody's here. Nobody's going to interrupt us. Let's _take our time._"

The words, soft as they were in his ear, rang in Matt's consciousness like a great, tolling bell. He felt as though his life were at a crossroads at the utterance of this one revolutionary idea.

He had always been so ruled by his passions, be they lust or anger or fear, that he barely ever stopped moving. There was always another death to prevent, another bad guy to capture, another messy personal entanglement to flee before it became too oppressive. He had been on track to do the same thing here. To run through the motions at full speed, take what pleasure could be taken, and escape before he had a chance of being hurt. But he didn't want this to be just like everything else in his life had been.

He realized, looking deep into Mohinder's eyes-- those eyes so full of openness and giving-- that he ran the risk of burning out this flame too quickly and leaving himself once again in the dark. And Mohinder's eyes were telling him, _I am willing to be hurt by you. I am willing to give you the best and the worst of me._ And Matt wanted, for what felt like the first time in his life, to give himself in return.

What Mohinder was proposing, he thought, his heart aching with the wideness and depth of his emotion, was a destination. A chance to stop running, to look around and see where he was. A chance to decide, _This is the place I have been running to. This is the place I ought to be._

_This is home._

Wordlessly, he opened both his palms, offering his hands to Mohinder, who took them. They stood and smiled.

"Stay with me," Matt said, seriously.

Mohinder nodded. "Come on," he whispered.

They started down the hall to the bedroom, walking very slowly. After all, they had all night.


	2. Moral Clarity

**One-Shot Wonders**

Short stories, drabbles, and one-shots featuring Matt, Mohinder, and Molly

by Jennifer Rubio (nee Wand)

-

**Moral Clarity**

Rated G

_Set after 2x07, "Out of Time." Mohinder seeks moral clarity at his little girl's bedside._

It wasn't just because of the strange heaviness of the gun at his side that Mohinder felt weighed down. He had come here, to the Company, with absolute moral clarity: They had played him for a sap, used Molly shamelessly, spied on hundreds-- maybe thousands-- of people who were guilty of nothing but evolution. It had been easy to say yes to Bennet's plan.

But now everything was confused. If Bennet's daughter was the key to curing Niki-- indeed, she might be the key to curing all of the world's diseases-- wasn't that worth the invasion of privacy? In the end, wasn't the Company just trying to save lives? And yet he imagined himself in Bennet's position and anger swelled inside him. He'd be damned if he'd allow anyone-- be it Bob or Matt or _anyone_-- to use his daughter, even to save the world.

Perhaps if he saw Molly things would be clearer. There was something about her sweet face that cleansed his soul. But these days it didn't help much even to see her-- she was dwarfed by the enormity of the bed that seemed to swallow her, by the equipment and the electrodes. The sparkling eyes from which he used to draw so much strength could no longer open to inspire him. Still, an unconscious Molly was better than no Molly at all, and Mohinder found his pace quickening as he approached the door to her room.

So with the gun and his doubts already weighing heavily on him, the sinking feeling at seeing the bed empty threatened to take him right through the floor.

He muttered a string of curses. A million nightmare scenarios spawned, snarling, in the back of his mind. The Company had taken advantage of the confusion to snatch her away. Maury had kidnapped her, not just mentally but physically this time. Niki had hallucinated that Molly was her son and fled with her in tow. It was too much. Mohinder punched the doorframe.

"You're gonna break it."

His heart stopped. Then it filled with helium. The weight of the past few days dissolved into nothing. He whirled.

Two smiling faces greeted him. And his sweet child flew into his arms with a giggle, and all was right with the world once more.

Her weight tugging against his chest was more beautiful than anything he'd ever felt. A sense of absolute moral clarity washed over him. Nothing was righter than this, the knowledge that the most important person in his life was safe, happy, and going home with him tonight. He'd protect that, no matter what dark alliances he had to make, no matter what devils he had to deal with.

Matt smiled at him from behind Molly's curtain of strawberry blonde strands, and Mohinder smiled back warmly. There was a confidence to Matt's posture that hadn't been there before, and Mohinder was glad for him, for whatever had happened to make him stand up so straight, smile so readily.

"Shall we?" Even his voice was different.

Mohinder eased Molly back in his arms so he could look at her face. There was the sparkle in the green eyes he'd been searching for. "Absolutely," he answered, his eyes locked into hers. "Let's go home."


	3. Serendipity

One-Shot Wonders 

Short stories, drabbles, and one-shots featuring Matt, Mohinder, and Molly

by Jennifer Rubio (nee Wand)

* * *

**Serendipity**

_Rated PG-13. Originally posted in three parts, a brief pre-slash action/adventure._

* * *

_A long time ago, three young Princes of Serendip decided to go forth into the world in search of glory and Treasures to honour their father and gain his favour._

_They decided to not travel as high born princes but like everyman, so that no one would seek to curry favour with them or to give them any special privileges._

_They found that by travelling in this manner they found much hardship and human suffering along the way. But they also discovered, quite unexpectedly, great and wonderful good in the most unlikely of situations, places and people._

_Upon their return home after a number of years of travelling, and telling their father and his court of all they saw and experienced, they decided to commemorate the experience of finding valuable and agreeable things not specifically sought by creating a word._

_The word the Three Princes of Serendip created is a word called "serendipity."_

* * *

Matt was actually looking for the movie listings at the time. Molly had made some noise about wanting to see the newest family flick featuring animated ladies in gigantic hoop skirts that would trip even the most poised lady in real life couldn't handle. It would help if he could remember the name, but he was sure it had Princess or Lovely or Enchanting somewhere in the title. So it was only by chance that his eyes wandered away from the confusing, confusing letters and onto a photo. Photos always seemed to be so much more straightforward.

Except for he was fairly sure he was IN this photo.

It was a print of a painting. Done in a fairly standard, almost cartoonish style, it was a dark scene of a city square. A sculpture, reddish in the dim light, rose up out of the pavement, blocked only by the silhouettes of two figures. And along the fringes of the picture were assorted onlookers, including a man slumped against a wall, another man hunched over him.

It was a scene he was not likely to forget any time soon.

He leaned forward in his chair, concentrated, tried to make the letters resolve into words. It was nearly fruitless. He was able to make out "opening" and "gallery" and "8 PM," but very little else.

"Oh, ain't that something?"

McKay was behind him, gaping over his shoulder and dropping donut crumbs on his lap. Usually this was cause for Matt to grumble at him, but this time he just smiled weakly and nodded. Besides, he wanted to hear McKay's thoughts as he scanned the article. Luckily, McKay was pretty shameless about reading things over people's shoulders, and he took Matt right through the article's first paragraphs like an unintentional tour guide.

_"A tragic mystery surrounds the inaugural viewing at the Deveaux Memorial Gallery tonight at 8 PM. The gallery was dedicated by the Linderman Group in memory of philanthropist Charles Deveaux, who died last fall, but its opening took on a new significance only a few months later when his only daughter, Simone, a noted curator and agent, disappeared. The exhibit features previously undisplayed paintings and sketches of Isaac Mendez, the eclectic graphic novelist and painter with whom Simone Deveaux was widely believed to be romantically involved, and who disappeared at almost the same time as she did. Some of Mendez's earlier works have prompted an urban legend to rise up in art circles that the artist had a sixth sense; some of his works, if accurately dated, appear to portray news items that happened several weeks later. Critics of his work counter that Mendez was addicted to heroin and that either the works are not dated correctly, or believers in the urban legend are simply displaying confirmation bias..."_

Matt wasn't sure what Mohinder was up to that night, but he figured he'd better call a babysitter, just to be on the safe side.

* * *

It was seven and Matt was dressed in the shirt and tie he kept in the precinct's coat closet just in case the Top Brass showed up or he had to suddenly look respectable for another reason. And he was damned hungry, with just enough time to grab something to eat before he had to pretend he knew anything whatsoever about art.

So it was smart to call the babysitter, because Mohinder would be out tonight as well. Smart, but not necessary - he'd already called her, and she took one look at her caller ID and said, "Oh, do you need to cancel for tonight?" Matt was pretty sure he'd disappointed her by saying no.

A few blocks from the gallery's address, he ran across a diner that looked cheap and quick enough for his purposes. Now if he could only keep the grease off his shirt, he'd be all set to check out the creepy exhibit. He slid into a booth and squinted at the menu, which was written on a chalkboard in a scrawled hand. As though printed menus weren't bad enough. He nearly knocked a waitress over as he got back up, trying to squint through the unkempt mess of curly black hair sitting at the bar to see the specials.

Then he realized what he was trying to look through.

"Mohinder? Is that you?"

The scientist turned, raised his eyebrows. "Matt? I thought you were going out tonight."

"I am. Can't you tell?"

"Yes, come to think of it, the shirt and tie is an unusual look for you. Is it a date?"

"No, just something in town I was interested in. Getting a bite to eat first. You want to join me?" He made a general gesture toward the booth.

Mohinder waved him off. "No, that's fine. I'm in a hurry."

"Come on." Matt wasn't sure why he was being so friendly. Perhaps he was a little nervous about what this exhibition was all about. But he thought at least having a familiar face around for a few minutes might be a good thing.

"All right." Mohinder picked up his coffee cup and came to sit in the booth opposite Matt. "I have somewhere to be in a little less than an hour."

"Yeah. Me too." For a while, the only sound between the two was the clinking of the spoon as Mohinder absently twirled it around in the half-full mug. "So. Um. How's work?" Matt finally said. "You making any progress on that vaccine?"

"Not really, no," Mohinder sighed. "It's an extension of the same problem a lot of pharmaceutical developers are having, actually. Our tendency toward antibiotics is breeding more resistant pathogens. This is just more of the same, in a slightly different context."

"I'll just pretend I understood that," Matt shrugged. Mohinder's eyes flickered up toward his briefly, and Matt noticed for the first time just how long his eyelashes were. The kind that were absolutely wasted on a man. A woman with those eyes and those eyelashes would be on the cover of a magazine.

They ordered and ate hurriedly, exchanging only a few pleasantries about Molly's schoolwork and this month's rent. Matt was feeling deeply uncomfortable, as though he were under a spotlight. And it wasn't because of Mohinder's presence or the looming mystery of this exhibit, either. There was a thought in the air, just a prickle of a thought from someone somewhere nearby, that was making him bristle. It happened every so often, when he had let down his guard and allowed his mind to open a little. Passersby, drivers in nearby cars, hot dog vendors -- all the people around him were constantly thinking, and most of the time it was a pleasant, low buzz, no more noticeable than a slight breeze. But occasionally there would be a thought with malice in it, and it twanged a dissonant chord in that medley. The thought he was picking up on now was truly dark.

Still, no reason to alarm anyone. So there were schmucks in New York, same as LA. Not a big surprise. "I got this one," he said, passing a credit card to the waitress.

"Thanks, I think." Mohinder's lips twitched. "Assuming you're able to pay the rent as well."

Matt feigned offense. "I live within my means," he declared, "thank you very much. Hey, whatcha got there?" Mohinder had unfolded a square of paper in his hands and was gazing at it.

"Directions to my engagement tonight," he said, his eyes darting over the page.

"Where are you headed?" Matt almost immediately backtracked. "Don't mean to pry. Just asking."

"It's an exhibition," Mohinder said clinically. "Some paintings by an artist who had an unusual ability."

"Isaac Mendez?"

"You knew him?" The big eyes blinked.

"No, I just -- I thought it looked interesting," Matt finished lamely. He leaned to the side to access his pocket and brought out the snippet of newspaper. "And I'm pretty sure that's me."

Mohinder took the clipping, gazed at it intensely. "That's _us_," he corrected. "I had never seen this one. Extraordinary."

Matt laughed. Having someone else goggle at the picture made him feel a little less weird. "Well, this is unexpected," he grinned, "but it looks like I've got a date tonight after all."

* * *

The gallery was on the ground floor of a three-story building, with what looked to be nondescript offices on the other levels. Despite the squat appearance of the building, the entrance had been dramatically lit, and the exhibit, behind the open glass facade, seemed to stretch on far deeper than the building would allow. Everything was gleaming white until twelve feet, at which the spell was broken and the building turned back into a pumpkin.

There was even a limo parked outside the entrance, and the cascade of fake fur and flashing earrings made Matt feel a little edgy. He knew they were almost all twentysomethings who were just faking being in the jet set, but he couldn't even fake it, and that was somewhat disheartening. But Mohinder seemed right in his element. People turned when he approached, and in some cases, eyes followed them all the way down the block. It was a funny thing, too. Perhaps it was too many days of pinkish blouses and awful argyle socks, but Mohinder in a dress shirt was a new sight for Matt. He had to admit, the guy cleaned up pretty well.

Mohinder sprang for the cover charge, and the pert blonde at the entrance (who would have been cute had it not been for the nose ring that made her look like a bull) fanned herself with one of the programs she was handing out when they passed through the doors. Matt gave her a sidelong glance, but there was nothing coming from her except for little hearts following Mohinder around and an idle dream that someday her work would open in this space.

That nasty, black sensation had followed him here, and he was starting to worry if it was directed at him. As a cop, he had plenty of enemies, but he was still new enough in this town that he doubted he had much of a rep built up yet-- at least, not one that an ex-con could nurse enough to become this black a grudge.

In the center of the room, a young Asian woman was explaining in a clipped voice how "Mr. Linderman had kept an eye on this young, evolving talent until his passing. Part of his last will and testament involved the public release of a number of the artist's sketchbooks and paintings, which were previously held in Mr. Linderman's private collection. Mr. Linderman had hoped to decipher the meaning of the works himself, but with his untimely passing--" and here the woman looked visibly upset-- "he had no choice but to display them to the world, and hope that the right person would come along to divine their significance."

"Creepy," muttered a young guy in a trenchcoat to his date. "I heard Linderman was nuts. They're a bunch of cartoons, for Christ's sake!"

"Art can transcend time, Rob. Maybe there was a message in them. Like the Da Vinci Code," the girl on his arm reprimanded him, and they both laughed.

"I nearly met Isaac Mendez once," Mohinder said under his breath to Matt. "At the time I was still skeptical and thought I was being led by a crazy person. I had no idea that all this would come to mean what it has."

And by "all this," Matt knew, Mohinder meant everything around them. There was an eclipse, a man on fire, a girl torn apart on a medical table, two halves of a woman's face. Some of them Matt recognized; others looked vaguely familiar. But there was also what looked like a samurai battle, a frightening-looking monster, and several other pieces that seemed to be standard comic-book art, all dynamic poses and motion lines. And they made no sense to him.

"So some of these were him painting the future and some of them weren't?" he muttered. Somehow, even with all the noise, he felt he had to be careful not to speak too loudly. "That one can't be the future. It has a dinosaur in it."

"Good point. I'm not sure," Mohinder assented. "Certainly he did have a day job. But given Linderman's association with the Company, I doubt he would have hoarded images that had no significance. It may just be that some of these are prophetic of events that hadn't happened yet. That's why I'm here. I'm looking for clues that will help me stop the spread of this virus. It's entirely possible that Isaac Mendez would have foreseen it, as well."

"Hey, excuse me?" A woman with long brown curls had leaned in front of them. There was color in her cheeks and she was smiling tentatively. Once she had their attention, she straightened up and grinned, her eyes (not surprisingly) on Mohinder. "Were you one of Isaac's models?"

Mohinder blinked several times. "E-excuse me?" he stammered. "No, no, I was never a model."

The girl took a gulp of her champagne. "Oh," she said nervously, "Funny. You look just like one of the sketches in the back room." A skinny finger pointed toward the back wall, where a number of small black-and-white sketches were arrayed in neat white frames.

"Really?" Mohinder raised an eyebrow. "What sketch is that?"

Inexplicably, the girl turned bright pink. "You'll have to see it yourself," she said quickly, and ran away. Matt felt somehow sick to his stomach at the exchange. He reminded himself that Mohinder was not _actually_ his date, then nearly spit up the finger food he'd just swallowed as he realized what that thought was about. If he was this bad when someone was hitting on his roommate, he was going to be awful when Molly started dating.

Then the black cloud of thought hit him like a locomotive, and he doubled forward, yelling. Mohinder gave a shout of alarm and jumped to steady him. Matt leaned on his shoulder, gasping for breath, his eyes wide and wild. "He's fine, just a panic attack, please don't mind him," he dimly heard Mohinder say to the small crowd that had gathered. He followed the pair of feet that were guiding him, and when he was again aware of his surroundings, they were in a small alcove near the back of the gallery, and Mohinder was pressing a glass of water into his hand.

"I'm sorry," he gasped, trying to calm and steady his breaths.

"What happened?"

"There's someone here," Matt said, "who's dangerous. And I don't know who it is or why, but they're really angry and they're planning something."

Mohinder gazed at him gravely. His face was ashen, Mohinder noted, and his hand was shaking around the cup of water. Mohinder put his hand over the trembling one to steady it. "Should we leave?" he asked.

Matt shook his head. "Can't leave. He'll do something. I have to find him and stop him."

"Do you know it's a he?" Another shake of the head. "What should we do, then?"

"Just keep looking normal. I'll start listening for him." Matt got up. "Thanks for the water, by the way."

"Of course." Mohinder was still looking at him curiously, and Matt started to become self-conscious. He moved back out into the gallery's lights.

They were in the deeper half of the exhibit now, the one with a million small sketches lining the walls. Matt moved slowly through the gathered crowd, pretending to be absorbed in the paintings, listening. Mostly, though, the cacophony was all too usual:

_Interesting play of light and shadow..._  
_Not half as good as Tim Sale's art..._  
_Why did he limit himself to just comics?_  
_Wonder if I can get a grant from this Linder dude..._

Mohinder kept an eye on him, but was soon distracted by a series of sketches that seemed all too familiar. In one of them, a girl was on the run from what seemed to be a storm of wasps. In another, what looked to be the same girl was being comforted by a man while another stood in the background. And in a third, the two men were standing in her doorway, talking intently.

But the series didn't end there. There was another sketch, slightly bigger, that was drawing a great deal of attention. A number of slightly tipsy young women were giggling hysterically over it, ignoring as their dates tried to get them to move elsewhere. Mohinder craned his neck to see and immediately wished he hadn't. The drawing showed the two men from the previous sketches, rendered in exquisite, loving detail. And the drawing showed them in a very intimate pose.

Mohinder turned and hurried away from the series, attaching himself to a railing on the opposite wall and gulping in breaths, trying to banish the thought of his head arched back like that, his muscles clenched in the moment portrayed. It would have been too intense an image to look at if it had been a stranger; to know it was him-- had to be him-- was overwhelming. And even worse, although his face had been obscured in the sketch, the other man's identity had been plenty clear.

But there had been very little time in Mohinder's life for embarrassment or speculation. Something always propelled him forward toward the next crisis, and tonight was no exception. The wall he was now facing was cluttered with sketches, and one toward the bottom of the wall, almost unnoticeable, seemed familiar. He crouched down to see it more clearly. And this one made him gasp for another reason.

The sketch was blurry, as if smudged by an errant hand or a careless framer. The edges were gray with smoke, and flames licked along the bottom margin. Silhouettes of panicked people were visible through the conflagration. And all around them, sketches and paintings hanging on white walls were burning.

* * *

Matt was so deep in thought - others' thoughts, of course, not his - that he didn't even see Mohinder rushing up to him. In fact, he jumped when the man grabbed his arm with sudden urgency. "Mohinder, what the hell--" he began, but his words trailed off as the sketch Mohinder was pointing to came into slow focus. "That's here," he said. Mohinder nodded wordlessly. "Holy shit, that's here. All right. Don't panic." He grabbed the pointing arm, forced it down to Mohinder's side. "Don't make a fuss. If anyone else notices that picture, it'll be a madhouse in here. Just stand there. Don't face it. Watch people. I'll go around the edges of the room, keep an eye out. Just _don't panic._"

He had gone into full cop mode, Mohinder noted as he watched him stomp away purposefully. He'd seen Matt with a gun in his hand, seen him struggle back from the brink of death, but this was Matt Parkman in his _element_. And the thought of leaving it up to him made Mohinder kind of confident. He smiled.

Matt wasn't aware he was in his element. He wasn't aware of anything but the fact that there was a real danger here and he needed to stop it. He scanned the throng, muscling his way through their lines where he needed to and getting more than a few clicked tongues and disapproving glares. They didn't faze him. They didn't have to like him, they just had to _survive_, and that's where he came in. Situations like this were why he became a cop in the first place.

He wasn't even looking at the artwork, but there was a man across the room staring at one painting, transfixed, and as Matt got closer, he could hear a steady stream of _Oh my God oh my God oh my God_ in his head. Remaining several feet behind him, Matt inched up to where he could see the image on the wall. Abruptly, his mind began echoing the man's horrified shouts.

It had been three months ago, one of his first New York cases. Two children being held hostage in an apartment by the mother, who had been thrown out by her husband and had forced her way back into the apartment. On the phone she'd been demanding crazy things of the police, that they get her a helicopter and $10,000, that they arrest her husband and lock him away, that they get the president of the United States on the line because he was inside her head. They talked her down as best they could, but by the time the team made it into the apartment, she'd shot herself, and the place was ablaze; the kids had suffocated in the smoke. The poor father had survived, but he was too distraught to even give testimony, and the case had been closed.

Matt recognized the apartment's decor immediately. Worse, he could see the body of one of the children, tiny legs poking out from under a sofa like the Wicked Witch of the East. But the foreground of the picture was what made it so stomach-turningly awful. In it, he could see the mother, sweating and shouting into a cell phone... but a gun was being trained on her by the father, whose madness was palpable in the picture. The woman looked only frightened.

And it was that same father who was staring at the painting now.

Matt considered retreating and calling for backup, but as he watched, the man bolted. Matt could only hear the edge of his thoughts as he ran off: _...destroy it and nobody will ever know..._

The guy had gone out a small side door labeled "Employees Only." Matt shot after him, barreling through a semicircle of chatterboxes. He wished he'd brought his gun. At this rate he'd have to depend on muscle and the element of surprise to stop him. On the other side of the door the dark hallway doubled as a cleaning closet. The closest thing Matt could find to a weapon was a tall broom, which he grabbed. He could hear the panicked thoughts of the man he was after dimly in the darkness-- he was close, but not close enough.

Then the thoughts abruptly changed. _Catch, catch, catch!_ Matt came to a corner and peered around, his back flat against the wall. The back room he was looking into was a storehouse for artworks, and canvases and prints were stacked up in huge, leaning piles against walls and file cabinets. Like a scurrying raccoon, a dark shape was in one corner, squatting against one of the stacks.

_Catch, catch, catch!_ It was almost too dark to see, but light was flickering from behind him, and Matt realized with horror what he was trying to do. There was no more time for doubt. He broke into a run, determined to knock the man's tools of arson out of reach before that picture had a chance to become reality.

The man heard the footsteps and turned to be knocked flat on his back by Matt, who grabbed his wrists and forced them above his head. "Police!" he bellowed, hoping the tone would be enough. The man struggled, kneed him in the back fruitlessly.

"Hoping nobody would notice?" Matt's adrenaline was in control of his tongue now. "Hoping you could torch the place and be off the hook? Nice try, pal."

The guy was wild-eyed. His hands were black as though covered with soot. He spat, "How can I torch the place? I haven't got any matches, no lighter, nothing! You crazy-ass cop!"

Matt's eyes darted to and fro. There was nothing in the guy's hand, nothing on the surrounding floor. Had he made a mistake? His hands loosened their grip.

And then he heard,_Dumbass._

Another half-second, and he'd been knocked backward himself, his head hitting wood plank flooring with a sickening crack. There was a huge snapping noise and then heat by his side, and when he turned his head he saw red and blue flame licking against the edge of the frame of a discarded canvas, snapping and catching against splinters on the unsanded floor, devouring inches like an angry monster. And it was all radiating from the man's palm, placed flat against that floor. His hand was the tinderbox from which the fire was spreading.

_Shit_, thought Matt. _He can start __**fires.**_ He rolled over onto the flame, praying his body weight would be enough to smother it, but by then the man had put his blackened hands on another square of floor, and there was more fire. Matt coughed heavily, tried to grasp the guy's ankles, but by then the bastard had completely regained his balance, and he kicked Matt down again, compounding smoky suffocation with bruising pain and confusion. Flat on his back, he did a half-second survey of the room. The place was dark, and from the looks of it, still in construction-- Matt doubted there was working electricity, much less a fire alarm or sprinkler system. And he didn't have time to wait for it to kick in, either. With aching arms he grabbed one of the canvases and started slamming it against the fire. How stupid could he have been to think he could just handle this off the books, with no gun or backup?

Wait, he did have backup. Of a sort. Matt took a break from berating himself and, after swiping the broom handle across the man's kneecaps, toppling him, squeezed his eyes tight and concentrated.

_Mohinder, can you hear me? I need your help._

The words hit Mohinder like a shot through the back of the head. He'd been standing, sweating, trying to be nonchalant as traffic milled all around him. And then, clear as a bell, there was Matt in his head, calling out to him, giving him instructions. It was a phenomenon he'd never experienced before. Direct telepathic contact. This had implications for--

_Don't just stand there, hurry!_

Mohinder bolted from his spot, startling several of the young women who had decided he must be one of the exhibits himself. They cooed and gasped as he made for a side wall, where a fire extinguisher hung from a hook. With a mighty effort he pried his way through the crowd and grabbed the big red bolt of metal.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" It was the Asian woman who had been giving the lecture earlier. Mohinder wheeled, sure he looked like a crazy person, hugging a fire extinguisher and sweating like a hog. But the woman's sharp features changed the minute his face came into view. "Doctor Suresh, pardon me... is your friend...?" She looked as though she wasn't sure whether to smile or gasp. "Don't let me stop you," she said finally. I'll arrange for backup."

Mohinder was fairly sure he'd never seen her before tonight, but he didn't have time to ponder the situation. He shouldered his way through the employees' door into the dark hallway.

Matt had thrown his body across the man's legs, keeping him from getting back up, but now the man was hitting him with flame-laced fists, and his shirt was burning, and Matt was yelling from the pain and the effort of keeping him down. The guy was cursing at him. "Your fault if I torch the fucking place," he screamed. "Was just gonna lay low, ya know, grab the thing, but no, you had to be a goddamn hero! It's on your head, you pig! You made me do this!"

The words stung to Matt's core. All of a sudden everything was in doubt, and questions were everywhere. Had his being here tonight put all those people in danger? Should he just have ignored what he thought those paintings and those whispers were trying to tell him? Had he come searching for a perp, a destructive force, and discovered that he was that very force? He winced with both guilt and pain.

Then the world was full of gray-blue mist and it was hard to breathe for a different reason. "Matt!" called Mohinder through the haze, his voice panicked. "Are you all right?"

With the voice came a clarity of purpose, and Matt's doubts faded. "Put out the fire!" he hollered. "Don't mind me, make sure it doesn't spread!" The certainty gave him strength, and with a roar he captured both the firestarter's hands, forcing them into fists. The man yelped as he tried to ignite Matt's hands and ended up burning his own palms before the sheer lack of oxygen killed the flames on arrival.

A few minutes later there were private police on the scene, and how they knew to encase his hands in airtight bags was anyone's guess, but the Asian woman was giving orders, her arms folded smartly in front of her chest. As they turned to take him away, Matt walked up, leaned over, scowled into that crazed visage. "I didn't make you do anything," he muttered through gritted teeth. "You made a choice about how to use your power. That's all you."

The man spat, and his hands in the bags glowed faintly but were useless.

Mohinder watched. His pulse was racing. He'd been in more life-and-death situations in the past few months than he cared to recall, but this felt different. He felt as though he'd stumbled into this one by accident. There was no great master plan at work here; nobody was saving the world. And yet he could have sworn he felt the hand of fate at his back. Did Isaac Mendez know, when he drew those sketches, that someone would step in to save his legacy? Could he see that far into the future?

His mind flickered back to the series of sketches that had mortified him earlier. What else had this prophetic painter seen? Could he have known that Mohinder would be shocked to find himself the subject of erotic drawings? Had he expected it?

And more than any question, one thought wrapped around and around itself like a Moebius strip in Mohinder's mind: If he hadn't seen those sketches, he would never have thought to look at Matt in a different way. But he had, and he did. And now there was a melting inside him that he couldn't explain. He'd come here searching for answers, for a glimpse into the mysteries he probed every day, perhaps even a peek into the future. But what he'd found was a hero.

Wasn't there a word for that?

* * *

The woman's name was June Sakamoto, and she was more than grateful to the pair for their assistance. She also seemed to know a hell of a lot more about both of them than either was comfortable with, and as they sat in the back office later that night after the gallery closed, they glanced at each other nervously.

Among other things, Miss Sakamoto seemed to like hearing herself talk. She'd gone on an extended ramble about how during his life, Mr. Linderman had been consumed with creating a better world, and he saw Isaac Mendez's talent as key to that effort. "At first it seemed to be the assumption that everything Isaac Mendez saw when he painted was of earth-shattering significance," she explained. "But it became clear, as more of his work was added to the archives, that there were more personal, smaller-scale events depicted as well. The death of those children and their mother, and the subsequent threat to this gallery, was one. You may have seen others," she added, her eyes darting toward Mohinder and making him gulp.

"So you're telling us you were aware of the potential that your gallery might be burned to the ground, and yet you proceeded with the opening?" he asked.

"Of course," she said. "It's very difficult to change destiny, after all. Mr. Linderman was acutely aware of that, which is why he was so determined that these works should see the light of day."

"So you put all those people in danger?" Matt was beside himself.

"Not necessarily," Sakamoto answered smoothly. "Consider your presence here tonight. If you hadn't been here, would that gentleman have panicked quite as he did?"

"But I was here--"

"--and you stopped him. Precisely." Matt's jaw opened and clicked shut a few times. He sat back, his brow furrowed as though the whole concept was too much for him.

"Isn't that what they refer to as a self-fulfilling prophecy, though?" Mohinder was sure there was a flaw in this fatalistic logic. "You expect a disaster to occur, so instead of trying to prevent it, you attempt to accelerate its coming and then profit by it? That seems negligent at best and sadistic at worst."

Sakamoto laughed. "Doctor Suresh, I was privileged to work very closely with Mr. Linderman for several years. He was a shrewd man, with a love of many arts; not just painting but literature, as well. He was a particular aficionado of certain words, which he felt accurately summed up what he knew of the human experience. One of those words was _serendipity._"

For a moment, a thrill shot through Mohinder's body. But he managed to maintain his poker face. "I'm familiar with the word. The act of finding something when you are searching for something else."

"Exactly." She leaned forward. "As you might imagine, looking through and inventorying Isaac Mendez's paintings led to many a moment of serendipity for Mr. Linderman and I. In some cases, the paintings led us to do a great deal of good. He felt it was only fair that he accept the risk inherent in that, for through his experience, he had found destiny to be his only worthy adversary. 'And when one has a worthy adversary,' he used to tell me, 'one must pick one's battles carefully.' "

"And accept those one cannot win," Mohinder finished. "The idea has merit. I'm just baffled at your ability to decide that this would not be a worthy battle."

"And I, Doctor," she said meaningfully, "am surprised at what you have chosen to fight."

* * *

Home was a few blocks from the subway station, and Mohinder blew on his hands, watching his breath puff around them and disappear into the cold air. Matt's hands were in his pockets, but he was shivering, too, and muttering into the collar of his coat.

"If I hadn't been there he wouldn't have... but I was there, so he.. and.."

A very unlucky soda can came into contact with his foot and was promptly kicked across the street. "God DAMN, that woman was frustrating!" His hands flew to his waist, where, Mohinder knew, beneath his coat was a shirt that was singed and skin that was probably blistering. "Ow!"

"Are you sure you don't want to visit a hospital?" Mohinder asked.

Matt, ever the macho man, smiled as though he could feel no pain. "Why would I want to do that?" he said. "Besides, I've got a doctor who makes house calls. To his own house, but still."

"Heh." Mohinder half-smirked, but his mind had begun roiling with images. Would Matt actually ask him to patch up his wounds? What would happen if, as Mohinder's fingers spread ointment over that blistered skin, there were firelight in Matt's eyes? And if he were to pull a bandage around his back, and have to bend in toward those shoulders to get an airtight fit...

"What?"

He realized he'd been staring. "Nothing." Trying to swallow his pulse, Mohinder sucked in cold air that felt refreshingly bitter in his chest.

"Hey," Matt went on, "what was that word she was going on about? The one about finding something you weren't looking for?"

"Serendipity," Mohinder answered quietly.

"Right." Matt stopped walking, faced him. "I wonder if this counts."

His voice was grave, his eyes shimmering like a vibrating string that had just sounded a low note. Mohinder's heart went flying up through his ears. In that place, with that expression, he realized, Matt was an uncommonly handsome man. "What?"

"You know, this whole thing. If I hadn't run into you in that cafe, I might be dead now. But you were there, so I made it. Does that qualify?"

Breath returned. Handsome, Mohinder amended, but with no self-awareness whatsoever. "I don't think that's precisely what it means, no."

"Oh." He sounded disappointed. "I must not get it, then."

But Mohinder did. It was simple enough, really. What he'd found tonight, unexpectedly, was a sort of enlightenment.

It was not always a painting that predicted the future. Sometimes, it was the sight of a man in danger; the laugh in a voice; the confused dimness in dark eyes. Sometimes, the greatest clarity was found amid smoke and flames and confusion. And sometimes it was not what was in a drawing that predicted the future, but what that drawing made you feel and realize about yourself and the people around you.

And it was not always the answers to your questions that mattered, but who was beside you on the long journey to find those answers.

He'd wanted to look into the future of the world tonight. Instead, he'd found his own.


	4. Sometimes I Can't

**One-Shot Wonders**

Short stories, drabbles, and one-shots featuring Matt, Mohinder, and Molly

by Jennifer Rubio (nee Wand)

**Sometimes I Can't…**

Sometimes, I can't stand myself. I lie awake at night and think about what I've asked of her and how it almost killed her. And then I think about how it isn't really that she was in pain that bothers me but that I almost lost her. It's all from a frame of me, my needs, my love for her. I think I must be the most selfish bastard in existence. Is that what I want for her? To be a doll there for me to dress up and play with? She's too strong for that. She's stronger than most adults I know. There's no way she'd let me. And then I hate myself for believing she'll keep me from going off the deep end into the darkness. And then I hate myself for doubting her.

Sometimes, I can't figure children out. How is it that when a boy falls down on the soccer field and skins his knee, he's a baby if he cries, but somehow the inability to see the latest episode of Magical All-Star Fashion Dream Team is worth a two-hour-long silent treatment, an hour of which is sobs in the bedroom? I am kind of glad she wasn't around when I was a child. I hate to think what she would have thought of me.

Sometimes, I can't understand why he lets me stay. I can't cook, I can't read. I can clean worth a damn, which he can't do, but that's hardly enough to justify it. I mean, I understand that he wants Molly to feel secure. And I know Molly loves me. But I can't sustain a decent conversation on any of the topics that interest him. I don't know a thing about biology or culture. I'm completely hot-dogs-and-pizza American, and he's so international and multicultural and complex and fascinating. But his fingers trail across my arm and pause on my bicep, and it's like having arm muscles is the sort of thing worthy of a Nobel Prize, when it's just a function of doing push-ups. The physics of that should be simple enough for even a big lunk like me to understand. But he wants to watch my morning routine. He wants me sweating around the apartment after my jog. It's a good thing I can clean,because I might kick myself out due to the stench.

Sometimes, I can't keep my feelings inside. There will be a moment when he smiles or laughs and the little wrinkles near his eyes form, and something about the line of his face will be like poetry that needs reciting. And I'll feel myself grab him with both arms and press him close to me, and his warmth will surge through me like a song. And I'll whisper hotly how good he makes me feel and how much strength he gives me and how beautiful he is and how lucky I am to even know him, and he'll laugh and ask what brought this on, even though the answer is always the same. You. You brought this on, Mohinder. You made me adore you.

Sometimes, I can't remember what my life was like before him. I know that somewhere in the distant past there was a regular shape to life. School, job, marriage, family. That was before the echoes began sounding in my mind, before a serial killer tried to kill a little girl and a man in horn-rimmed glasses stole two days of my life. That's before the shape of my life went from sensible square to weirded-out trapezoid. (Trapezoid? Oh, lord, my brain has gone dorky through exposure to his.) It is hard to remember what normal life looked like. What? Isn't this normal? Solving murder cases by reading suspects' minds, then going home to my beautiful little girl who also could be and her equally beautiful other father? It sounds pretty normal to me. I guess that's just how far gone I am. Pardon me, though, if I don't ever want to go back. It's too wonderful on this side of the equation. (Equations. Again. It's your fault, you big intellectual bastard.)

Sometimes, I can't come up with the words for how much I love them both.

Sometimes, I can't help but think that's OK.


	5. Shehecheyanu

**One-Shot Wonders**

Short stories, drabbles, and one-shots featuring Matt, Mohinder, and Molly

by Jennifer Rubio (nee Wand)

* * *

**Shehecheyanu**

Rated G

_Written for Chanukah_

"Do you know the story of Chanukah?" Matt asked Molly as she wrested the menorah from the bottom of the box. His things had come a week ago, but Matt was still under no-heavy-lifting no-bending-over rules, so when he panicked and realized the holiday started tonight, it was Molly's job to scavenge through the boxes like a packrat until she found the necessities.

"Um, isn't it something like they lit a candle and it burned for eight nights?"

"Well, that's the story they tell the kids," Matt said in his best I-know-more-than-you-do voice. Molly rolled her eyes. She knew the tone very well.

"Oh, I see," she sneered. "And you're going to tell me what they tell the grown-ups, because you're just that kind of nice guy."

"Well, if you don't want to hear it--"

"No, no, go on," she lilted with a grin. Matt had almost never seen her grin. She'd always been crying or screaming when he'd met her before, both in L.A. and here in New York. Had he known what a spitfire she was, he probably-- well, in truth, he probably would have moved in even faster. She was beyond adorable, and he swore his whole body ached less when she was happy.

"Well," he said, "back in the day, the Greeks had taken control of the land of Israel. And they had a king who told all the Jews they couldn't use their temples or do anything Jewish. So a bunch of guys got together and made up a little army, and they overthrew the king and took their temple back."

Molly was surprised when the silence returned. "And?"

"And?" Matt echoed stupidly back at her. "And, that was the real miracle of Chanukah."

"That's not a miracle, that's a war," Molly said, setting the menorah up on the windowsill.

Matt knit his brow. "But they were just a couple of farmers, and they went up against the whole Greek army. Sort of like you and me, and how we went up against the boogeyman and won. And how you fought against that virus and got better."

This gave her pause. "Well, I guess so. When you put it that way, it is a little bit lame to just have a candle burning for eight days." She turned to him and nodded. "Yeah, I like your story better."

"I knew you would." Matt leaned forward to kiss her forehead. "Now, let's get these candles in here."

"So you put in just one the first night?"

"One, plus the _shammas_," Matt said. "You use that one to light the others."

"And what, you just light them?"

"You say a prayer. Well, two prayers. Well, three."

"_Three?_"

He pulled his tattered kipah from the pile of assorted Judaica and put it on. Molly giggled at it. "Yeah. One is thanking God for letting you light the candles. The second is thanking God for giving us a miracle. And the third one--" his eyes softened. "The third one you only say on the first two nights. But it's my favorite."

She contemplated the sudden change in his expression. "What is it about?"

He smiled down at her. Such a small, ever-burning miracle that she was. "The third one says, 'We thank you, Lord our God, King of the Universe, for keeping us alive, for sustaining us, for allowing us to reach this day.' In other words," he said, touching her face gently, "it's 'Thank God I'm still alive and with the people I love.' "

Molly had tears in her eyes. Her little hands came up to rest on the big one that caressed her. "Can we say that one first?" she asked.

It wasn't until he had to sniffle that Matt realized he was teary-eyed too. He struck the match. "Sure, sweetheart. We sure can."

_Baruch atah adonai, elohenu melech ha'olam, shehecheyanu v'kiyemanu v'hikiyanu lazman hazeh._


	6. Untitled

One-Shot Wonders 

Short stories, drabbles, and one-shots featuring Matt, Mohinder, and Molly

by Jennifer Rubio (nee Wand)

_An untitled phone conversation, set after 2x09 ("Cautionary Tales.")_

"I've done something horrible."

"I've done something worse."

"Nothing worse."

"Yes, it is. It's worse."

"Can't be."

"I can't come home."

"I need you to. Please. I can't do this alone--"

"You don't want that girl living with someone who's--"

"What? What is it? Did you kill someone or something?"

"..."

"Oh. Geez. Mohinder. That must be awful for you."

"_That's_ what you have to say? That it's awful for _me_?"

"I'm a cop. I've been there. It's ugly and awful but sometimes you have to. I know you. You would have had a good reason to pull the trigger."

"No. No. It was-- he had a gun on Bob and I panicked..."

"That's a good reason."

"He's never going to trust me again."

"Who? Bob?"

"Bennet."

"So Bennet was there?"

"Bennet's who I killed."

"... That sounds insane, you know that, right?"

"What? Oh. Oh, God, no. No. They've... they've used his daughter's blood... she can regenerate. He's in the Company's custody now."

"So you didn't kill anyone."

"Yes, I did. I had no idea they were going to..."

"Mohinder, listen to yourself. God DAMN. You've been given an out. Jesus! The first guy I ever shot stayed dead. How do you think _that_ felt?"

"I'm sorry, but that doesn't make me feel any better."

"I imagine it doesn't. But the end result is, he's going to be all right. And you saved Bob's life. That's something, right?"

"Not really... but the fact that you think so is... comforting, I suppose."

"...that's right. We just have to keep in mind why we're doing all this..."

"And all will be forgiven?"

"That I don't know about..."

"Matt. Did you want to tell me something?"

"...No. No. Not yet. We'll talk later. Come _home._"

"...Yes. I'm on my way."


	7. Four Drabbles

**One-Shot Wonders**

Short stories, drabbles, and one-shots featuring Matt, Mohinder, and Molly

by Jennifer Rubio (nee Wand)

_Four drabbles._

**One**

"Well, I thought it was rather nice of her, actually," Mohinder sniffed as he put the key in the door.

"Are you kidding me? That whole spiel about how we should welcome alternative family arrangements? Like we needed more attention than we were getting." Matt dumped his coat over the back of his favorite easy chair and sat down in it with a gruff humph.

Mohinder leaned over him, hands on the arm rests, and smiled devilishly. "Well, you've done your parental duty, at the very least. It wasn't that bad, was it?"

Matt looked at his thumbs. "Nah, I guess not. Kind of cool to think about coaching soccer, you know? Sort of thing I thought I'd never get to do."

"You should go ahead and volunteer," Mohinder said, pressing a kiss to his forehead. "It'd be good for you."

"I'll think about it," Matt said evasively and grinned.

"Speaking of thinking," said a rich voice in his ear, "do you know what I'm thinking about?"

"How can I not? You're practically screaming it." Matt stretched out his arms and pulled Mohinder onto his lap.

Mohinder's hands moved up to anxiously stroke the sides of his face.. "I can't help it. You're sexy when you're parental."

"I never asked you to help it," groaned Matt as he leaned forward.

**Two**

It was cold, Mohinder had said. You've got to wear a scarf, Mohinder had said. You're going to catch your death of cold, Mohinder had said. For a guy with an education in England he sure couldn't take the cold. Hell, Matt was from Southern California and _he_ didn't think it was cold enough for scarves.

Well, fine, if Mohinder wanted him to wear a scarf he was going to wear a scarf.

And nothing else.

Mohinder took one look and decided he'd do the rest of the job of warming Matt up.

By the end of the night they were both plenty warm and wrapped up in scarf and sheet and each other.

Except for Matt's feet were cold. But he wasn't going to let on, because next thing you know, Mohinder would start insisting he wear boots.

And that? Might hurt.

**Three**

"You are absolutely bull-shitting me," said Mohinder.

"I am not! Why does it seem so hard to believe?"

"I refuse for one moment to believe that Mister Law and Order could possibly have gone skinny-dipping with his high school girlfriend in Regis Philbin's swimming pool." Mohinder had had a few too many, and his record with alcohol was abysmal. He could barely get a few words out. "It's bullshit!"

"Hey, I had to do something traumatizing enough to get roped into law enforcement," Matt shrugged, leaning in lecherously to his neck. "And he only lived a few blocks away. Why, are you jealous?"

"Noooo, that's rillijukus." Mohinder slurred, squinting at him. "I just would like to think that if I had been there I would have had the good graces to at least put on a Speedo."

Matt's jaw dropped (and something else rose... just for balance's sake). "You wear Speedos?"

Mohinder grinned. "Now I'm bull-shitting you."

**Four**

"That's the one," Molly said, pointing. She'd dragged the both of them, one by each hand, for the past three blocks, insisting that she'd found the absolute cutest thing in the world and if she never got another Christmas or birthday present as long as she lived she had to have it.

They'd thought it was a toy. Or maybe a dress. It wasn't.

It was a real live, mewling, yawning, furry grey kitten.

And it was damned cute. Matt started with the "No way, nohow" bluster, but Mohinder seemed oddly transfixed by its gray-green eyes.

"You can't trust that thing," Matt insisted. "Those eyes are planning something."

"Oh, let's just go in and let Molly hold her a minute," Mohinder said in a voice like molasses. It made Matt a little sick to his stomach.

The kitten's name was Lila, and the woman who ran the shop was rambling on about vaccines and declawing and neutering and litter boxes and things Matt couldn't begin to try to comprehend as she scooped the animal out of the cage and gave her to Molly. At the first feel of the weight and warmth and slipperiness of a real live animal in her arms, Molly squealed and nearly dropped her. The kitten pawed at her tamely and settled in, regarding Matt with suspicious eyes.

"Oh, she's so cute!" Molly said when she could speak again. Her eyes were diamonds of delight. "We've GOT to have her!"

"We'll think about it," said Mohinder.

"How about a dog? Dogs are friendly," said Matt, just to be contrary.

"Would you cut it out?" Mohinder hissed at him.

"You can't trust cats!" Matt warned. "Unless you were planning to murder your furniture one way or another and you were really sick of your apartment NOT smelling like pee."

Mohinder turned away from him, huffing, and asked Molly, "Can I hold her?" Molly nodded and held Lila out.

As with everything and everyone he'd ever come across, Mohinder charmed the kitten immediately. She walked across his outstretched arm and actually settled on his shoulder, nuzzling his neck and chin. Mohinder laughed, tickled by the fuzzy nose, and Matt suddenly needed a shot of insulin.

"She _is_ adorable," Mohinder said, his smile brilliant.

"See? See? Mohinder likes her!" Molly entreated.

Matt looked down at the girl by his side and over at the curly-haired man with the brilliant smile. "We'll... think about it," he heard himself say.


	8. Stairwell Confessional

One-Shot Wonders One-Shot Wonders

Short stories, drabbles, and one-shots featuring Matt, Mohinder, and Molly

by Jennifer Rubio (nee Wand)

Stairwell Confessional

_Rated R for strong language and content_

_A piece of a story that never found the rest of it._

Here was the thing. They hadn't seen each other in a week and a half. And that's pretty much normal for them and it wasn't like they didn't lead fairly independent lives anyway, what with their jobs and saving the world and whatnot. But something was different this time and maybe it was just that this time there was no phone contact because the one time Mohinder could get reception in the backwater South American mountain village, from which he had to hike seven miles to his destination, Matt had apparently just had a hell of a day and was sleeping soundly and Mohinder couldn't bear to have Molly wake him. And maybe it was that Molly had said he was very, very sad today and she wishes he were there.

Then again, maybe it was that the young boy he'd been sent to find had been ostracized by his village for his ability and no matter how he reasoned with the elders they would not admit that he did not, in fact, have the mark of the devil. And the child himself had no ambition, no concept that he would ever become more than the village madman, and all he could do was sit and talk to the plants because they understood him, and they would grow into pleasing shapes for him, and Mohinder had to leave, heart aching with loneliness for his sake.

And maybe it was that in the wilds of Peru he had no privacy and therefore had had no relief. For a week. And a half.

Whatever it was, it made him go straight from the airport to Matt's precinct and step right into the middle of that zoo of people and say, "I need to speak with Detective Parkman and it's urgent."

He was still kept waiting for twenty minutes, which he spent looking around the busy headquarters and attempting to find as many potential places to have sex as possible. On the edge of the cubicle, sure, shaking the partition and rattling all the photos off their hooks… underneath that desk, quietly, with much rustling and stifled groans… he wondered what the bathroom looked like… watching keys jangling from another officer's pocket, he considered adding a new meaning to Jailhouse Rock… All in all he was just thinking of a smooth pale chest and a warm mouth and a thick cock that curled upwards in just the perfect way and how badly he needed to touch and be touched by a man with a scent like spice and molasses who was, thank God, finally in the vicinity.

His eyebrows went through the roof at the sight of him and he grabbed him by an arm like he was really fucking angry and for a moment Mohinder was absolutely terrified. "What the hell are you doing here?" he demanded loudly. "Damn it… come on." And he grabbed Mohinder by his upper arm and started dragging him toward the back of the room like Mohinder was some stool pigeon there to spill his guts, or some drunk he'd been harassed by, or something else horrible and awful and criminal, and the minute Matt threw him through the door and into the back stairwell Mohinder was ready to apologize and possibly even cry.

Except for the door slammed shut with a bang that echoed through the whole place and before he could say a word Matt was on him with hands in his hair and hips bumping his and kissing him senseless with lips that scorched. "I missed you," he whispered, words with blisters of heat around their edges, "Holy shit did I ever miss you." And Mohinder sighed and grabbed him by the elbows and clung to him for balance.

"God, Matt, you scared the devil out of me…" he whispered, or tried to whisper, between kisses.

"Sorry. Was…" (lips near his ear) "quickest way I knew…" (on his neck oh that SPOT on his neck) "...get you alone…" (hands under his shirt rumpled with flight and sleep) "been thinking bout this all day—"

"All WEEK—" Mohinder gasped, pulling Matt against him and on top of him on one of the cold steps.

"All my fucking LIFE—"

Mohinder grasped the handrail and it was cold, shocking cold, and he sucked in a sharp breath and sat up, pushing Matt off of him… "Oh. Oh, God. What are we doing? In public. I'm sorry…"

Matt put a hand on the step below him to steady himself. "I. I don't know. I just…."

For a moment they were silent, breathing heavily, not looking at each other, not touching, just hearing their breaths echo in the empty stairwell.

"Matt, I'm scared by this," Mohinder said weakly. "I shouldn't… I shouldn't need you this badly." He faced him, his eyes deep and imploring. "Will you swear to me you haven't done anything with my mind?"

Matt rose to his feet, incensed. "How can you ask me that? You know I'd never… I wouldn't even know how!"

"That's what I'm afraid of!" He stood too, one step higher than Matt so his chin was sharply angled down toward him. "What if you've done something without even knowing it? How am I supposed to trust my own feelings around you?" He shook his head helplessly, his eyes losing their focus. "I have… never… wanted anyone this badly before. And I've been around men who were much…"

He shut up quickly. There was hurt in Matt's eyes.

"I'm jet-lagged," Mohinder whispered quietly. "I'll… go home and have a nap." He turned, red-faced, his eyes itching, and stepped off the stairwell toward the door.

Matt caught him by the wrist. "Much more attractive than me, right? I know. I'm not dumb. At least, not most of the time." His voice was a low, guttural expulsion of breath, something that was at once modest and masculine. The balance of it confused Mohinder.

"I didn't…"

"You didn't have to. And you're not the first. Look, you think I don't wish I had a nickel for every person who's called me fat over the years? I'm That Fat Cop to all of my exes and half of my collars. You're not breaking any new ground here. You're smart enough to know that. But still. Don't think it doesn't sting."

Mohinder heaved a sigh. "Why do we do this? Whenever we're in the same room, we're fighting. Fighting or fucking. I've done that. That's not the kind of relationship I want."

"Me neither." Matt came up behind him, draped an arm around him. "You want my honest opinion? I think we're scared. We are both so scared of this thing between us being real, being it. 'Forsaking all others' and all that crap. We're not used to it. I mean, come on. Five years ago did you ever see yourself sharing a cruddy apartment with That Fat Cop—"

"Don't—"

"—Stay with me here. Raising a little girl together, with honey-I'm-home and holding hands underneath the table and goopy smiles and grocery lists and PTA meetings and… and all that?" His lips brushed the shell of Mohinder's ear as he talked, and his throat rumbled against his shoulders. "Did you think that was where you'd be at this point in your life?" Mohinder shook his head silently. "Well, it's exactly where I thought I'd be. Or hoped I'd be. Just… not with you. And frankly, not with a man. No offense. And now I'm That Fat Gay Cop and that's about the weirdest thing in the world."

Mohinder whirled on him. "Would you stop calling yourself that? I never once thought of you—"

Matt's hand was on his lips. "But it's OK. You know, if that's who I am, then that's who I am. It took me a long time to get there, and there are days I'm not OK with it, but most days I am. I don't like hearing it, but I can live with it." He removed his hand from Mohinder's mouth, testing to see if he'd stay quiet. He did. Matt sat down on the staircase again and went on.

"Let me tell you something. When I saw you sitting there just now, waiting for me, with your suitcase? I was scared to death. I thought, oh my God. He's come to see me before even going home. This thing is moving so fast and I don't know when or how it got to this point but whatever we thought this thing was when we started it, it's more now. It's more, and you're more, and you mean more to me than I ever thought anyone would, and that's terrifying."

"So you think we fight because we're afraid of falling in love?" Mohinder asked. "That's rather cliched, isn't it?"

Matt shrugged. "I'm not very imaginative."

Mohinder laughed out loud. "No, you're really not."

"When you laugh I'm pretty sure I'm already in love with you," said Matt suddenly. Then he turned beet red. "Ack! God, I'm sorry. That's not how I meant to…"

He was cut off by Mohinder's hand on his knee. He was sitting down on the step next to him, taking one of his hands, smiling a genuine smile. "It never is," he said briefly, and leaned his head against Matt's shoulder. Matt shuddered, then chuckled, and slipped an arm around him.

"Shit," he said. "This has gotten so far out of hand I don't even know what to do next."

"Perhaps..." Mohinder's voice was barely a breath.

"Perhaps what?"

"Nothing."

"Oh, forget it." Matt hooked the arm around his shoulders so it closed around his neck in a joking choke hold. "You can't start and not finish. Besides, this is me we're talking about. Don't make me go in there and grab it."

"I, just for a moment, I thought..." Mohinder blushed and cocked his head to stare at Matt's gentle face. There was such softness and sweetness there that it melted him a little bit. He wanted to sink into that skin. "I thought, perhaps this is the part where we live happily ever after."

All the emotion left Matt's face. He turned and stared at him, blank and gaping.

But it only lasted a moment and then Mohinder was pinned underneath him again and being kissed like it was going out of style, being kissed like a man who's just proposed marriage, and perhaps he just had, after a fashion. What did it matter? He was being kissed. That was all that mattered.

"We're not fighting now," Matt mumbled into the base of his neck. "Does that make this fucking, then?"

"Not nearly close enough to it," Mohinder groaned, his hands at the base of Matt's neck, whispering small circles into the softness there. "Does this stairwell get used often?"


	9. Five Things You Make Me Feel

One-Shot Wonders One-Shot Wonders

Short stories, drabbles, and one-shots featuring Matt, Mohinder, and Molly

by Jennifer Rubio (nee Wand)

Five Things You Make Me Feel

**I. Spontaneous**

Mohinder Suresh is in love. He's absolutely sure of it. He's madly, and passionately, and fill-in-the-blankly in love. And he's loved in return.

He's never been so miserable in all his life.

Mohinder Suresh, you see, likes things to be planned. He likes logic. He likes there to be a rhythm and a rhyme to things. That's science. Anything that cannot be explained by empirical data is right out. It's irrelevant. Or it didn't exist to begin with.

He can explain Molly, of course. He can easily explain adoring her. There are a million things about her to love. She is a bright, sweet, smart young lady with a one-in-a-million gift and a one-in-a-billion smile. The illogical thing would be to not adore her. Even taking her home with him, giving her a place to live, seems perfectly rational.

And inviting a sensible, straightforward man with a steady stream of income and a shared adoration for her to come be her surrogate father, opening his apartment to him and providing him a place to be, that was the sensible and logical thing to do for sure. She needs a stable, secure home with two loving parents. All the research suggests as much. He's simply playing the probabilities.

But confused, jumbling feelings do not make sense. An awkward, searching kiss late at night in the front hall of the apartment, and an even more awkward tumble into bed a week later in what was simultaneously the strangest and most exhilarating experience of Mohinder's adult life-- these did not make sense. Nor did it seem logical that they should subsequently discover, through late-night whispered conversations and hand-holding at play dates, that they both felt they were such ordinary people in the most extraordinary of surroundings, that they wanted so much more for everyone else in their lives than they ever wanted for themselves, that they shared a fear of rejection and criticism, that they were both so traumatized by earlier events in their lives that they were scared to death of falling again into that abyss that was opening up wider and wider before them.

And it makes even less sense that Mohinder has ended up not just falling but throwing himself into that chasm. Head over heels, as they say.

What's worse, the whole world seems to have inexplicably changed.

The sky, the _New York_ sky, is blue. The buildings gleam. Have taxicabs always been so yellow? And so forth and so on.

And he wants to _do_ something. What?

Buy a gift.

He wants to buy those flowers that the guy on the corner is selling for 5 a bunch.

Tulips. Red tulips.

And he wants to wander through that open-air market they're holding today.

Oh. They're selling rock candy. Homespun rock candy. He wants to buy some of that.

By the time he makes it home, he is carrying a dozen red tulips, a package of rock candy, a bolt of cloth that he suspects is a throw for a kitchen table, a deck of oversized playing cards, an intriguing rock formation shaped like three Ms folded in on each other, and a gigantic silver-backed balloon with a cartoon cop, blowing his whistle, painted on the front.

Matt and Molly look at him as though he's lost his mind.

"I felt spontaneous," he says.

When he hands Matt the flowers, he telegraphs, _I suspect that is your fault._

**II. Intelligent**  
_for __ilsaluvsrick, __ who had expressed interest in my theories on the subject_

Mohinder has been helping Matt learn to read. Well, not _how_ to read. He can read. When the letters stay still. He's learning how to _make_ them stay still.

There's very little that is fun or flattering about having a genius teach you remedial comprehension skills. Especially when you are a classic brawn-not-brains meathead cop, and your job skills feature the ability to shout "Freeze" and scare the crap out of a suspect in an interrogation room. And when he's not the meathead, Matt knows, he's the gentle giant. He looks kind and smiles winningly and a little girl clings to him like he's the last safe harbor on earth. That makes him feel trusted, but not intelligent. Not remotely.

Then, one day, Mohinder points out to him that he reads Molly her bedtime story flawlessly every time, and he's floored.

What is it that's different when he's trying to put his little girl to bed? Why can he do then so effortlessly what he can't do any other time without a very great effort?

And then he's floored again, because Mohinder is standing in the hall with a quiet light in his eyes, saying softly, "I think you may have the most fascinating mind I've ever encountered."

Matt gawks at him in true meathead fashion, because he's never considered his mind worthy of a sentence containing _one_ multisyllabic word, much less "fascinating" _and_ "encountered."

Mohinder posits a theory about self-hypnosis or self-suggestion. He theorizes that Matt has somehow commanded himself to be a competent father to Molly. He suggests that Matt may be able to use his abilities to self-cure his dyslexia. Furthermore, he suggests that the dyslexia itself may be a sort of coping mechanism, a self-limiting factor put in place by a brain that is significantly more powerful than it expected itself to be. A fail-safe to keep the power from ballooning out of control too early on.

"So you're saying I'm dumb because I'm too smart?" Matt stammers incredulously. "That's one I haven't heard before."

"That's not exactly what I'm implying, no." Mohinder raises an eyebrow.

"That's good, because nobody's ever accused me of being smart," Matt grins.

This time, that same eybrow twitches in annoyance. "I never said you weren't smart. Please don't put words in my mouth."

"Sorry." Matt rolls his eyes. He's sure the unspoken words are clear to them both: _You didn't_ have _to say it._

But Mohinder goes on. "That's another theory I have. Your modesty. Your reluctance to acknowledge your own intelligence. I wonder if that isn't another fail-safe. A personality trait developed to prevent you from abusing your power." He becomes very animated all of a sudden, pacing back and forth in the hallway. "If that's the case, it may signify not only an evolutionary step for the human race but a leap forward for evolution itself!"

"Whoa. Whoa." Matt clamps two hands down on his shoulders. His legs take two half-steps before realizing they're going nowhere and giving up. "What are you talking about? You think I only _think_ I'm not smart?"

"Matt," Mohinder says with glittering eyes and a huge, dazzling smile, "it's quite possible that whatever mutation is at play in your genetic code has developed a capacity for morality in addition to sheer survival instinct. That would, quite literally, make you the most advanced intelligence ever to exist on this planet!"

Matt turns pink up to his ears. He doesn't believe a word of it, of course. But maybe that's because he's too intelligent to let himself.

**III. Intoxicated**  
_for plotbunnytiff, who suggested the word as a prompt_

Mohinder is not a big drinker. Matt doesn't understand this. He doesn't drink, he doesn't eat meat-- how is he _ever_ going to make it in America? Mohinder tries to explain that he has plenty of vices, but Matt pooh-poohs them, one by one. Atheism? Practically a national pastime. Lack of personal hygiene? Who does he think he's living with? And at this point, homosexuality is clearly not on the table as a valid character flaw. So Matt insists that Mohinder is a paragon of virtue, and he absolutely must get him drunk or he will be completely hopeless.

But the taste of beer is worse than sucking on a frog, Mohinder declares, and wine's all right but not really much better. At least, this is what he claims. Matt sees in his eyes, and hears more than a whisper in his thoughts, a sort of fear of the stuff. He's afraid of tasting it and liking it. That baffles Matt.

Until he wakes up one early November night to a noise like a rat shuffling around in the kitchen. He grabs his gun. Doesn't even notice that the space in bed next to him is empty.

He discovers Mohinder kneeling behind the kitchen counter, his fist in a bag of leftover Halloween candy, munching on tiny Milky Ways like they might be snatched out of his hands at any second.

A moment of wild-eyed panic and Mohinder begins, mouth full: "Before you say anything, my blood pressure is normal. My cholesterol levels are unnaturally low. And I couldn't gain a pound if I tried. And believe me, I've tried."

Matt is glad he didn't pull the gun. He hates to think how Mohinder might have panicked if he'd seen _that_ pointed at him instead of just a stunned stare.

Mohinder sighs and slumps against the cabinet. "I have a complex about control," he admits. "I hate to think I'm not in perfect possession of my faculties at all times. I want to be the one to decide what I do with both my higher and my baser instincts. Not alcohol, not drugs, not even lack of sleep. I know that much about myself. So... being caught like this is very humiliating." He gestures at the collapsed bag of sweets.

"So you have a sweet tooth," Matt says, unsure what to make of this bizarre defense-turned-confession. "How is that a crime?"

"It's not a crime." Mohinder keeps looking at the floor. Matt hastily stows the gun on the kitchen table and comes over to sit beside him. "It's just shameful. It's a personal failing. I'm hopeless around chocolate.

"I suppose I should be grateful for small favors," he goes on. "At least my metabolism can handle it. Many aren't quite so lucky. Still. I'm ashamed." He turns plaintive eyes on Matt.

Who almost bursts out laughing.

Mohinder has chocolate smeared on his cheek and caramel on the corners of his mouth.

"Don't move," he says, and bends in to kiss the delicious stains away. Mohinder opens his mouth to him, and there is the most incredible blend of spicy and sweet on his tongue. Matt finishes by licking up the smear on his cheek and draws back to look at him.

He seems to have flipped some switch deep within him, because Mohinder has the look of a wild animal. He grabs the front of Matt's nightshirt with two hands and drawls like a drunk:

_"I want to do things to you that couldn't be printed in the worst pornographic magazine imaginable."_

Mohinder has a hangover the next morning, and Matt has a backache. But being intoxicated like that was worth it. Maybe control is just a tad overrated.

**IV. Attractive**

Mohinder really _does_ have a metabolism to die for. This is something Matt notices very early on, and it comes back to haunt him when the holiday pounds have been happily packed on. At New Year's, Matt is sure he will never eat again. He makes a New Year's resolution, and announces it publicly to the family, that he is going to go jogging every day, rain or shine, until the gut is gone. Molly takes this as her license to pester him every morning. She must be a little vampire bat of a girl to always be up before the sun, jumping on their bed. Mohinder can, of course, sleep through anything. He slumbers quietly through the whole routine and is very seldom awake until Matt has returned, showered, and dressed.

As the days lengthen, however, this starts to change. By mid-February, Mohinder is up and moving when Matt returns from the job. And while Molly waves her hand in front of her face and says "Pee-yuuuw, go take a shower, would ya," Mohinder never says a word. In fact, he stares.

Matt has never been stared at before. That is, not in a way that didn't immediately precede being shoved into a locker or called Fatty-Fatty-Two-by-Four. He's really unsure how to handle it.

In fact, he has the wrong idea entirely. He thinks Mohinder must be gaping at just how much of a _mess_ he is when he comes home. He must be the epitome of a grunting, hulking, sweaty, dumb American. He doesn't even bother to read his mind to see if he's right. He's got a lifetime of experience to back up his conclusion. Who needs independent confirmation?

Then, one morning, he's had a terrible night full of nightmares, and Molly bounces on the bed and it's drizzling out the whole way and he thinks he's going to catch a cold and he just snaps at the both of them the moment he gets in the door. "Just don't say it. I'm going in the shower now, OK?"

Molly eeps. Matt turns with a glare to Mohinder. "And stop staring. There are apes in the zoo you can stare at. I'm not on display." Feeling vindicated, he marches into the bathroom, grabs a towel, turns the water on.

With the sweat, the feeling of accomplishment slides away, and guilt bubbles up along wiht the foam of the shampoo. He spends a little too long in the shower, feeling sorry for himself and slightly dizzy.

When he gets out, Mohinder is standing against the closed bathroom door, arms folded over his chest. He's carrying Matt's sweaty jogging clothes in one hand. "Matt Parkman, you are an ignorant jackass," he says matter-of-factly.

Matt blinks. Mohinder points to his own forehead.

_Listen to me._

Mohinder tosses the ratty jogging shorts at him. _When you started this routine, these were tight on you,_ Mohinder thinks pointedly at him. _Now they hang off your thighs. Haven't you noticed?_

Matt shakes his head mutely. Looks down at his legs. Then he's hit with the gym socks.

_You're wearing holes in these with how hard you're running. I never see you doing it, but I'm sure you're going faster and further than you used to. Your muscles tell me that story._

The flush creeping into the base of Matt's neck now has nothing to do with the workout or the steamy shower. Then he gets a faceful of his T-shirt.

_I want to be this shirt. I want you to sweat all over me. I want to cling to you, too._

Matt launches himself forward, drops the clothes he's just caught, catches Mohinder instead in an embrace and an open-mouth kiss, naked wet body on dry, clothed one, and they moan happily at the contact and for just one moment of his pathetic, self-esteem-lacking life, Matt really, wholeheartedly believes he is an attractive man.

Then Mohinder informs him, "You may look great, but your breath is awful. Brush your teeth, for God's sake."

Well. Guess even attractive guys need to face the truth once in a while.

**V. Sheltered**

In March, there's a return of the kind of gripping cold that was once December's exclusive territory. The apartment is freezing on one rainy morning. Mohinder sits up, shivers, feels his bare toes touch a shockingly cold wooden floor. He withdraws his foot as though it's touched fire rather than ice. Reflexively, he pulls at the blanket to drape it over his shoulders.

The blanket resists, and he has that blank moment of confusion before remembering that he shares the comforter and has for months.

Matt sits up, sees him shiver, and all at once strong, heavy arms like lead are around his shoulders and chest. A furnace, hot with sleep, on his back. Mouth like a fireplace on his neck. And around them both the comforter, like a rooftop. Matt's body, like a home.

It's something he hasn't felt since his father died. He has felt happy. He's felt loved. He's felt alive and willing and determined. But through it all, he's been the only one there protecting himself. Nobody has been looking out for Mohinder but Mohinder.

That's all changed. He's been drawn into someplace warm and safe. He's protected. He's secure. He's sheltered.

"'S too cold. Come back to bed," Matt rumbles wearily into his neck.

Mohinder nods. And he does.

_:g'nite!:_


	10. Five Drabbles, 3 with guest stars

One-Shot Wonders

Short stories, drabbles, and one-shots featuring Matt, Mohinder, and Molly

by Jennifer Rubio (nee Wand)

Five Drabbles _(three with guest stars and two without_

**One: Nathan**

"Look, I thought we said we'd never talk about that!"

Nathan looked up from his hospital bed. "What's your issue, Parkman?"

"You. Told. Her." Matt slammed the table once with each syllable.

"Of course I told her. She asked me why you were in Alabama one minute and Louisiana the next. What was I going to say? You want me to lie to an eight-year-old kid?"

Matt tapped his foot. "Your kids still believe in Santa Claus."

"That's nonsense from their mother," Nathan snapped coldly. "Besides. You said _we'd_ never talk about it. You didn't tell me I had to keep it a secret from your daughter. Who's very charming, by the way." He winked.

"Great. The world's biggest Casanova is macking on my kid." Matt rolled his eyes and leaned forward in confidence. "She told Mohinder," he whispered under his breath. "And now Mohinder's not talking to me."

Nathan broke out in a wide grin. "He's jealous."

"Wait, what?" Matt shook his head, confused. "Jealous? Of wha-- you think he just wants to go for a flying lesson or something? Well, by all means, then!" He threw up his hands. "When you get better, you know what, you go right ahead. In fact, you can fly him around the world. See if I give a damn."

The man in the hospital bad laughed. "For a mindreader, you sure are insecure," he said. "He wasn't jealous of _you._"

Matt stared at him blankly.

"So he won't talk to you? Fine, then." The politician smile faded into something more sinister. "Try doing something other than talking. See what kind of reaction you get."

**Two: Chandra/Sanjog**

Mohinder dreamed.

Sylar had returned and was at large. Molly was in danger. Matt was nowhere to be found. And Mohinder dreamed not the dreams of a tortured man but the dreams of one who is enlightened.

He was strolling along a promenade with his father. Seagulls were dotting the skies like dots of pepper. A barge was floating by. Children were playing.

"I don't understand," he said bemusedly as the energetic shouts of the children followed them down the path. "Nothing is happening. Everything is calm. That shouldn't be the case."

"Or, perhaps, it should," Chandra said to him. "Perhaps this is just the place you always wanted to be."

"But I'm not," Mohinder protested, his voice even louder against the young voices. "I'm nowhere close to finding that place. We're in such danger, and I can't trust anyone around me. How can you say I wanted to be here? This isn't what I asked for."

"Isn't it?" Chandra raised an eyebrow and smiled. The white hairs of his mustache spread like thin bolts of chalk until Mohinder could see the skin between each hair. "You have done everything I could have possibly asked you to do, Mohinder. You have found them. You have helped them. And you retain your humanity, which is so difficult to do among adversity. Trust me, I know." He chuckled.

"But it's not enough," Mohinder said, hearing a plaintive note in his own voice that he wasn't sure he liked. "Is this where you would have wanted to see me, were you still alive?"

The children ran back and forth, nearly tripping up the aged man. Mohinder rushed forward to catch him. "I'm grateful," he said as Mohinder's arms came around his.

"Of course."

"No, that is not what I mean." Chandra turned to face him. The barge blew a low note as the sun turned red in the sky. "I mean, I am grateful for all you have done in my memory. But know this, Mohinder. Had you thrown it all away, had you given all those ambitions up, you have found the one thing I always hoped you would find. You have something to love now. And if I can be grateful for nothing else, it is that."

Mohinder was about to respond, when something hit him in the shins. He looked down. A soccer ball had rolled to his feet. He picked it up and tossed it back to the child who had run up.

His smile was wide. His dark hair was shaggy.

Mohinder had seen him in a dream before.

**Three: Bennet**

"Damn. You look creepy, even for you."

It still hurt to talk, but Matt's sense of humor was stronger than his pain threshold, and it hung in there even when his lungs ached. Besides, the man who'd stopped by looked more or less like a bespectacled Johnny Cash.

"I'm actually on my way to the funeral. But I wanted to stop by and see how you were holding up," said Noah Bennet, adjusting his collar. "I thought you might want to have me pay your respects for you, so to speak."

Matt's voice broke a little. "Yeah. I appreciate that. Just, um. Put a rock near his grave, would you?"

Eyebrows arched beneath horn-rimmed glasses. "A rock? I'm happy to spring for some flowers, you know, if the hospital fees have already bled you dry."

Matt shook his head. "Flowers die. A rock is permanent. It doesn't go away. Besides, Ted wasn't much for flowers. Said he couldn't keep them alive even before he started lighting up. Convinced the things hated him."

"You knew him better than I did," Noah said. "Very well. A rock it is. I'm going to be late, Matt, I'm sorry."

"Thanks. Thanks for stopping by. I'm glad you did."

"Really? I wasn't sure. I know you said it hurts to talk."

Matt tried to hold back a sniffle. "Sometimes it hurts worse not to."

**Four**

When Molly wasn't with him, Mohinder visited only when Matt was asleep. He'd peer in the tiny window, and if the eyes were closed, he'd step inside. If Matt was facing away, or if the eyes were open, he'd beat a trail away.

Until, one day, Matt fooled him.

Mohinder saw the closed eyes and the rapid rise-and-fall of breathing and tiptoed inside. He brushed a few damp strands of hair off the man's forehead and sighed with longing. The pull of destiny was so strong it made his whole body ache. He wanted so badly to have the courage to talk to him, to get to know him, to tell him every insane dream that rocketed through his mind when he looked at him.

And then the eyes blinked open. "Why do you keep coming here?" Matt said.

Mohinder jumped. "You're awake. I'm sorry. Did I wake you?"

Matt's eyes were serious, and Mohinder knew then that he hadn't been sleeping at all. "Why?" he repeated.

"I just want to make sure that you heal well," he said noncommittally, looking away. Matt caught his wrist.

"I have a confession to make," he said. His grip was hot. Mohinder looked down at the place where their skin touched, white on brown.

"A confession?" he echoed stupidly.

"I know the real reason you come back," he said. "I can read minds. I hear your thoughts whenever you pass by, even when you don't come in."

Mohinder's jaw flapped open and shut. He felt the unsettling boom of a dream exploding and dying in flames.

"Stop that. Nothing's dying," Matt said. "It's OK." His hand trailed down Mohinder's wrist toward his hand, and he gently bent those slim fingers over his own.

"Great." Mohinder blinked away what he hoped were tears. "Everything's OK. Sure. I've just been caught red-handed falling in love with a man I just met. That sounds perfectly cheerful to me." He bit his lip.

"Mohinder. You're not falling in love," Matt said gently. He pressed his lips to Mohinder's knuckles. "_We're_ falling in love."

**Five**

Straining at the handcuffs. "Please, Detective. Have some heart. I'm completely at your mercy here."

"Damn straight." Matt looked over his prisoner. "And do you know why you're completely at my mercy?"

Lips twitching. "That's because you put a gun on the table, Detective Parkman. Sir."

A satisfied smile itching to become a grin. "That's right. And when my gun goes on the table, what does that mean?"

"It means I have to do whatever you say..." The smile erupting. "Damn it, Matt, I can't..."

"I know." They both broke down laughing. Crying laughing. Stomach-hurting, lung-bursting laughing.

When he could stop doubling over, Matt shook his head. "OK. So we can say we gave serious bondage a try and it wasn't for us. Oh well, life is short."

"Oh, dear. Oh, I haven't laughed that hard in months," Mohinder gasped. Matt reached forward to brush the tears from his eyelashes.

"I kinda like you in the handcuffs, though," he said, brushing a kiss against his stomach.

Mohinder half-sighed, half-moaned. "Yes, the handcuffs are fun. But I've seen you with the stomach flu and with your toenails painted. So I think calling you 'sir' is just impossible at this point."


	11. Like Music

One-Shot Wonders

Short stories, drabbles, and one-shots featuring Matt, Mohinder, and Molly

by Jennifer Rubio (nee Wand)

**Like Music**

Mohinder's in love with me. I hear thoughts, so I know.

It's kind of funny that he thinks I don't know. I told him right up front that I hear thoughts. "I don't like to think of it as mind-reading. It's shallower than that. I can't pull out people's memories or their deepest feelings. I can only hear what you're thinking right now, at this very moment," I said. "So you don't have to worry about me finding out your deepest secrets. Unless, of course, you're worrying about it right now."

But it's little things that always add up, you know? I mean, I'm a detective. It's my job to put two and two together. (I'm good at it, too. No matter what those failed exams say. They had nothing to do with my ability to solve mysteries.) So if he's staring at my hands when I'm pouring my coffee and he thinks "Too bad" when I settle down onto the couch to sleep, those are two pretty big clues. So while the thought-hearing stuff is helpful, it's not the whole bag. Even if he were the best poker face in the world and I couldn't do what I can, I think by now I'd have figured it out.

Mohinder's in love with me. I'm not sure I like that.

I mean, never mind the whole man thing. I've heard things since this... weirdness... started that makes that seem positively boring by comparison. As long as the thoughts involve neither leather nor diapers, I'm cool with it. (Hell, I might even be cool with a little bit of leather. Erm, but I digress.) It's just that, well, the guy's my roommate. I mean, how long can it stay flattering before it just gets hellish? What if he decides to say something one of these days? What if I decide to say something one of these days? What if I meet someone here in town? Will I have death wishes flying at her every time I bring her home? Might sort of ruin the mood.

Besides. I sort of don't like hearing Mohinder thinking about me when he should be paying attention to Molly. You know? I mean, flattering as it is when he looks up at me for a second while he's helping her with homework and I hear _beautiful eyes... oh God my heart is pounding_ like a shock of color in the black-and-white world of algebra, I'd really rather he just helped her with the math, you know? God knows I can't help her there. Besides, then _my_ heart starts pounding, and I wonder if I act funny, or he knows that I know, or something complicated like that. All this stuff, all this complication that I shouldn't be having if I didn't hear thoughts. All this stuff I didn't ask for.

Mohinder's in love with me. I wish I didn't know.

It's bad enough that I have to hear it. But I also have to worry about reacting to it. Am I acting different because I know? Does he assume I know and is just waiting for me to have the courage to talk about it? Does he have no idea I know and would be shocked if I came clean? Is he starting to suspect I might know, and should I be acting more casual or less casual or cheerier or crankier or something so he won't get any more suspicious?

Truthfully? I never should have gotten this ability. It's not something a guy like me can handle. Because my capacity for bullshit is just flat zero. I can't even do undercover work because I'm such a lousy liar. And when feelings are involved, I'm the biggest loser ever. I'm either squealing with happiness like a kid, or I'm Broody Moody Matt the Sad Sack. So for me to be the one who gets all this forbidden knowledge is just ridiculous. It should have gone to someone who's brilliant. Who's all logic and reason. Who could handle it without turning upside down and inside out. Someone like, oh, say, Mohinder.

Yeah. He would be brilliant reading thoughts. He could totally use it to figure out what the hell those Company assholes are all about, and then he wouldn't be nearly so obtuse. (OK. Not a good example of Mohinder's brilliance.) He would be so freaking brilliant if he actually could read minds instead of just study them. I wouldn't be nearly able to keep up with him. I can barely keep up with him as it is. I mean, not only is he brilliant, but he's all cultured. And I don't say that just because he has a British accent. I mean, the man drinks tea and listens to classical music and reads philosophy. Seriously. Philosophy. I can't understand the meaning of a six-letter word, let alone the meaning of life. But he's just... remarkable. It's a little intimidating.

Mohinder's in love with me. Which is ridiculous because he's way too good for me.

First of all, you've never seen such a gorgeous man. Let's admit it. He's built like a Greek god. (A Greek Indian god? An Indian Greek god? I'm not sure, but I have seen Indian gods and Mohinder's not built like any of them, so the Greek's gotta stay in there somewhere.) He has the curly hair and the bright eyes and the angelic smile, so he almost looks like a boy above the shoulders, but everything from there on down is just 100 hot man. I never see him exercise. I have no idea how he does it. He never breaks a sweat. Well, he's always in front of a microscope, so maybe he sweats the small stuff.

See, even my sense of humor is inferior. His sense of humor is very dry, very subtle. Kind of infuriating, too. Me, I'm all bad puns. And my voice sounds like a gravel pit. His sounds like a violin. Again, it's not just the accent. His words sort of rise and fall in this very music-y way. His thoughts have the same pattern, too. He thinks in full sentences. It's like a sort of hypnotizing voiceover. I fall asleep to it some nights. And when he thinks in the language he used to speak in India, I think he called it Tamil? It's so sexy. Like music.

And look, I haven't even gotten to how he's this brilliant geneticist who is also an amazing co-father and, um, this is sounding bad, isn't it?

Yes, this is decidedly bad. Because I've had this internal monologue going for so long that I've completely forgotten to move. And he's just looked up and thought, _He's been staring at me for a half-hour at least._ And I have. I am so busted.

Mohinder's in love with me. And he's just figured out that I know.

This is the moment where it all changes, isn't it? Crap, I've put this moment off for so long and now it's gone and snuck up on me from behind. And now I'm totally unprepared, and he's taking off his glasses and getting up and walking across the floor and I don't know quite what I want to say, and now my own thoughts are drowning out whatever it is that he's thinking so I have no idea what he's about to say.

I can't even hear what he's saying now that he's actually speaking except for maybe the word uncomfortable and the word thoughts and the word privacy. I just keep looking at his mouth, like it's some weird creature from another world. The way it moves is so interesting, so foreign, so strangely elegant. I want to see him say the word uncomfortable again just because I think his lips puckered about four different ways and I have never seen anyone with such a variety of puckers before. I bet they all taste different. Oh, God. Oh, God.

I think I'm shaking. I think my hands are trembling. He sees that I'm looking. Who needs to read thoughts? I must be an open book to him. Shit. Oh, God. I don't know what I'm doing. I don't know what he's saying. I can hear him thinking _please react, please say something, stop looking at me like you want to kiss me and either set me straight or kiss me because I know you can hear me, pick one and go with it!_

Yeah, OK, pick one. Right. I can do that.

And now my hands are trembling because they're moving without me and grabbing him and his face is full of surprise and joy and light. Which is great because I'm still not sure which one I picked. My mouth is opening but is it to tell him I'm not interested and he should go away now? No, no, I think that's not the direction I'm going given the fact that my eyes have just closed and his breath is warm against my face. Not sure yet. Not 100 percent sure.

But I'm pretty sure I chose to kiss him, because I think I'm kissing him. Oh, God, I am kissing him, and he, he's kissing me back and thinking _oh thank God Matt I love you I love you so much_ and something about his hands on my neck are making me shudder all over. His thoughts are a whole orchestra full of violins now, and my heart is a drum, and we're playing to the same rhythm. Like music. Like hope. Like love.

Mohinder's in love with me. How amazing is that?


	12. Seduced by Moonshine

One-Shot Wonders

Short stories, drabbles, and one-shots featuring Matt, Mohinder, and Molly

by Jennifer Rubio (nee Wand)

**Seduced by Moonshine**

Matt awoke to the disconcerting realization that he couldn't move his hands. His arms were bound tight behind a wooden barrel. The whole place smelled sick with alcohol, and the basement concrete was cold and damp beneath his legs.

He vaguely remembered the chaotic shootout and the barrel of his gun going silent and obstinate. Then there was the choke of a strong arm and a growl in his ear, and everything went quiet.

Now, as his eyes adjusted to the dimness, he was able to make out the gleaming silver tip of a cane. He followed the length of it upward to the gentle, dark hand that held it, then to the diamond cufflinks (just one would pay his salary for a year) and pinstriped suit, then up to the deceptively angelic face framed with dark curls and a bowler hat.

"'Moonshiner' Suresh," he muttered.

"My given name is Mohinder," the man said, taking a few steps toward him. "That nickname is one you police bestowed upon me. I rather prefer the one my mother gave me."

"Does she know what you've become?" Matt challenged, hoping the gangster had revealed a weak spot.

No such luck. "And what is that?" Mohinder laughed. His smile was dazzling. "A successful, _legitimate_ businessman?"

"For the love of Pete, 'Moonshiner.' How can you say that in this place? Take a whiff."

"I assure you," Mohinder said, coming to stand just above him and leaning his free hand on the top of the barrel that held Matt prisoner, "this is all purely medicinal alcohol. For sterilization purposes. I am also a doctor, remember?"

That was his other nickname, Matt remembered. Doctor to the Mob. Any number of unsavory characters had been seen entering and leaving his clinic, which he claimed was a public service. Sure, if you had a bullet wound or a knife in your back. He hadn't heard about many cases of mothers taking their kids there when they had the flu.

Matt took advantage of the moment to hook his leg around the end of the silver-tipped cane, yanking hard and toppling Mohinder to his knees beside him. He leaned forward as far as his bonds would allow. "I'm going to bring you down, Suresh," he sneered.

"You just did," smirked Mohinder. Their faces were inches apart, and through his frown Matt felt his heart speed up. He wished he had the use of his hands.

--_Why? To punch him out? Or to grab him and kiss him?_--

He tossed away the spare thought and glowered. "Mark my words, you'll be in jail when I'm done with you."

"So you've made annoyingly clear," breathed Mohinder, his face flushed by the fall. His eyes kept falling to Matt's mouth. "Why do you think I've brought you here, Officer? Use that detective's mind of yours. Why didn't I just have the Zombie kill you? I know I'm dying to find out if he really eats brains."

"Then it was Gray who grabbed me." Zane "the Zombie" Gray was a notorious hit man. He'd gotten his nickname after one too many corpses had been found with half their heads cut off. "Thanks for the confirmation. I always knew you ran with that crowd."

"Hardly admissible in a court of law, however," Mohinder pointed out. "Truly, I do worry about your qualifications sometimes. However are you to maintain law and order in this town if you can't even remember to get a decent handle on evidence before making your empty threats?"

He touched Matt's face. The hand was not just gentle but warm. Matt flushed. "But I like you, Officer. A good deal." He leaned even closer. Matt's pulse went into overdrive. The smirking mouth was so frustratingly close. "And a good deal," he went on, tilting his head to whisper into Matt's ear, "is what I'm willing to make you."

"And what kind of deal is that?" Matt was barely able to spit out the words. He was breathing in the scent of Mohinder and moonshine so rapidly that he thought he might be drunk already. His head was spinning.

"All this," Mohinder whispered. "Whatever you want, whenever you want it."

The words took their time in making sense. Matt hoped his captor didn't suspect what he'd thought for a shameful moment. "Booze," he sad weakly.

"That's right. For yourself. To keep. To sell at exorbitant prices. A lifetime of happiness, all yours for the taking."

Matt barked a harsh laugh, and Mohinder drew back as if struck. "Sorry, Doctor," Matt said with a triumphant grin. "But I'm immune to that particular temptation."

Mohinder stared at him for a moment, blankly. Matt felt a rush of excitement at his small victory. But then the leering smile returned. "I'll just have to find something else to tempt you with, then," he said as his lips captured Matt's in a hot kiss.

And Matt knew then what it was to be seduced by moonshine.


	13. Freedom

One-Shot Wonders One-Shot Wonders

Short stories, drabbles, and one-shots featuring Matt, Mohinder, and Molly

by Jennifer Rubio (nee Wand)

--

**Freedom**

_AU. Matthew is a man with justice on his mind. Mohinder is the operative of a certain Company. They are both looking for something._

When he was arrested, Matthew knew exactly what it was for. He had been told to expect it, and he had been told precisely what to say. He did not fear the panel, nor the consequences. But all of this failed to prepare him for the shock of the coldness in those eyes. He knew, of course, that Mohinder Suresh was no longer the boy with whom he'd walked down the cobblestone streets in London, hands joined, talking of their dreams. Nor was he the animated student meeting Matthew in a secret room in his mother's attic to teach him all that he'd gleaned from his higher education. The Mohinder Suresh that sat at the plaintiff's bench before the row of magistrates was nobility. His face was the meaning of India and empire and enterprise to a nation. And his eyes were frigid, unmoving, as the magistrate began to speak.

"Matthew Park, you are hereby accused of aiding and abetting lawlessness, destruction of private property, and conspiracy in the matter of the raid on the East India Company's ship in Boston Harbor last month."

"Huh?" Matthew feigned ignorance. "Wasn't that some bunch of savages that did all that?"

"It is well known that the so-called Sons of Liberty are behind this fiasco," huffed one of the magistrates, a stern-faced man with a tall, powdered wig and glasses. He shook a fist. "You and your little band of terrorists will pay for your insult to the crown, you lout-- I'll have you strung from your ears and--"

"Lord Bishop, please."

All heads turned. Mohinder himself looked a little surprised that he'd stepped forward. He stared at his own outstretched hand.

"Prince?" It had thrown Matthew every time he heard the word spoken in reference to his friend. Mohinder was his soulmate, his kindred spirit, his boyhood chum. He could not imagine that the boy was really an Indian prince, brought north to Britain, along with his older sister to be the public faces of the East India Company. Of course he held no true power at the corporation, but to her credit, Shanti had been a shrewd businesswoman, and before the disease had claimed her faculties (and then her life) completely, she'd arranged for her baby brother to live a charmed life.

"Yes." For the first time, those eyes glanced his way, and Matthew felt a surge of heat. Mohinder did remember him, after all. And with some fondness. He didn't dare hope. "I believe I'd like to speak with this man in my office. Will you allow me a brief audience with him before the trial proceeds?"

The panel agreed, much to Lord Bishop's chagrin, and Matthew was shackled and taken to a room in the upper floor of the courthouse. It was a sunny, bright chamber with a view of the Charles, which glittered with golden sunlight.

"Matthew." Mohinder entered the room, hanging up his jacket. Matthew turned toward the window defiantly. He came up behind him and, with deft hands, removed the shackles. Matthew swallowed hard at the feeling of Mohinder's breath on his neck. They hadn't been this close since the night before Matthew left for the colonies. When he closed his eyes, he felt like he was still in that cramped attic room, the lantern burning a clear yellow sheen on Mohinder's skin, a more mysterious light flashing in his smile.

"Mohinder," he croaked. He opened his eyes again, and the sunlight on the water blinded him as though he were emerging from that dim attic. "You look a perfect fool in all those jewels."

"You look equally foolish in shackles," Matthew turned to face him and was greeted with a bittersweet smile. "How could you have done this, Matthew? Such an abysmally stupid thing."

"You seem to be the one cursed with stupidity," Matthew spat back. "Have you gone so far native, then, that you forgot there was a time you swore you'd use your status for justice? Don't you remember the dreams you used to share with me of freedom?"

"They were fine dreams," Mohinder said smoothly. "But I've learned in the years since you left. Some people are destined to be special, Matthew. They have responsibilities not bestowed on the common man. I have those obligations, my friend." There was a ghost of pain in his voice, one he probably didn't even recognize. The cry of a prisoner trapped within his own mind.

"And I am the common man you speak of," Matthew said.

"It isn't meant as a slight," Mohinder began.

"It's not taken as one," insisted Matthew. "I _am_ the common man, Mohinder. That's just it. We all are just that, common men. We have certain things that are common to all of us. Our skin may be different, our stations may be different. But under all those jewels I know you and I have all the same parts. Need I remind you?"

"Matthew--!"

"Here's what I've learned from the Sons of Liberty, Mohinder." He strode toward him. "I've learned that no man is a king but in his own heart. And that when men join together and determine to be free of tyranny, no false king-- or false prince-- can stop them. Don't you remember, once, thinking the same?" he demanded.

"We were children," Mohinder protested, trying and failing to sound angered. Matthew knew he was remembering then-- the secret wishes he'd harbored to cast off his status and journey across the ocean along with his dearest friend, to find adventure and a new life in the New World that stretched so far beyond what had yet been charted of it. But Matthew had not been around to keep those dreams alive, and they'd suffocated in the months that followed his departure. "Now I am a man and I have a duty to this Company and a duty to those who have kept me alive and safe. Don't you have the same duty? Don't you think that without the protection of the crown your foolish colonial cities would fall? Or is that what you are after? Are you trying to engineer your own destruction?"

"Why would I want to live in a land I cannot protect with my own two hands?" Matthew demanded. "Where our good men cannot provide for their families because we are paying for the wasteful foolishness of the East India Company?"

"The Company's aim is the greater good," Mohinder said stiffly. "They are here to protect you."

"They are here for profit! If your Company were so great, why would it not sacrifice some of its own copious resources for our protection rather than forcing us to pay its share of taxes as well as our own?"

Mohinder's eyes quivered with water and fire. "What would you have us do, then?" he whispered. "Go bankrupt?" His heart was not in the words.

Matthew sighed. "Mohinder," he said gently. "Do you remember what you used to tell me all the time?"

"That... you could read my mind." His features were drooping, defeated.

"Do you doubt that now?" Mohinder shook his head. "What if I were to tell you that I can see your mind is troubled now?" Silence. Matthew reached out and touched the sad face. Mohinder leaned into his palm. "Do you know why?"

Mohinder shook his head. "I just keep remembering that last night," he said. "When I realized I couldn't go with you after all, and I pleaded with you to stay with me instead. I wanted you to stay so desperately." His eyes searched Matthew's. "I wanted to lock you in that attic and never let you out. I still feel that way, Matthew," he confessed. "I still want you for my own."

"No, you don't," Matthew touched his forehead to the prince's, held both his hands. "I've been yours since I first met you. That's never changed and it's not going to change."

"Then what is it that I want so badly?" His voice was a wail of anguish. "Read my mind now, Matthew, and tell me why I'm hurting. I beg of you."

In answer, Matt kissed him. A deep, sighing kiss, like the ones they'd shared when they'd bid goodbye to their boyhood foolishness and known that what they felt could never, never be what they lived. Mohinder struggled, tried to get away, but the hands that held his were powerful. His sadness and desperation were climbing inside him to a peak, and he feared he'd fall off the edge of the world if he couldn't escape.

And then there was a snap, a breaking point. Mohinder cried out a little and threw his arms around Matthew, leaning into the kiss, reveling in all of the joy that the world would deny him if it only knew how elated he was in the arms of this outlaw. And throughout it all, the sadness was pervasive, but the yearning was bright and sharp. _What is it?_ he begged silently. _What do I want so badly?_

Matthew pulled back, his face aglow, and whispered, "You want to be free."


	14. Roommates

One-Shot Wonders

Short stories, drabbles, and one-shots featuring Matt, Mohinder, and Molly

by Jennifer Rubio (nee Wand)

--

**Roommates**

It was absolutely a match made in hell.

Mohinder knew from the moment he walked in the door that he was going to share a room not with a Fascinating American but with a Dumb American.

The guy's sneakers were in the middle of the floor. That was the first clue. The ambient noise of the too-loud music in the speakers was the second. And the bleary eyes that greeted him when his new roommate turned around were the final piece to the puzzle.

Pre-med in the States, his foot. He should have stayed in Madras.

"Yo," said the boy, getting up from his chair and losing the headphones. An ungodly noise issued forth from the abandoned earpieces. "Matt Parkman. What's up."

"Mohinder Suresh," He shook his hand and stepped back a moment, stunned. Matt was _attractive._ Not handsome, in the strictest sense of the word-- there was no chiseled jaw or delicate line to his face. But he was solid, strong-looking, with a disarmingly easy grin. Perhaps first impressions would be deceiving. Perhaps he was actually supremely lucky.

Then Matt said, "Nice to meet you, Mo," and his hopes were shattered.

There was very little in the next few days to mitigate that conclusion. He did note that Matt was a good-hearted kid. He helped Mohinder unpack and showed some interest in his life. He invited him down to dinner with his friends (Mohinder went the first time, then politely refused the offers, which he was sure were only polite). But the fact remained that Matt was annoying to live with. He read out loud from his textbooks, often fumbling over the words, and although he tried not to draw attention to himself, the muttering still got on his nerves. He had an annoying habit of saying whatever he was thinking, and sometimes whatever Mohinder was thinking but had decided against saying, as well. He was also a huge stickler for the rules, which seemed odd to Mohinder, considering the guy hung out with a group of frat boys who spent half their time making jokes at the expense of people of Mohinder's type, skin color, and/or sexual orientation. (Oh yes, that was another thing-- he would feel decidedly uncomfortable telling Matt about that little detail. Besides, what did it matter? As the old saw went, it just meant he wasn't having sex with men instead of not having sex with women.)

At least that last point meant that Matt was cognizant of the rules for visitors. Specifically, it meant he wasn't constantly bringing girls up to the room. There seemed to be a distinct lack of that, in fact. Matt just wasn't one for the sex talk. Sports talk, sure. Complaints about professors, sure. Pestering questions about what India was like, all night long when Mohinder was trying to sleep, sure as hell. But he didn't talk about women. Well. One fewer thing for Mohinder to have to pretend he cared about.

But it wasn't long before his patience began to run out. Mohinder had pegged Professor Sanders as a tricky one from the get-go: sweet as candy to those she liked and practically murderous with all the rest. Try as he might, he couldn't figure out how to get on her good side. He was fairly sure that despite her appearance, she could throw not just the book but the whole desk at him if he raised his hand one more time. So that meant Mohinder had to figure out the subject matter from textbooks and the Net, and that involved online research and bookmarking and things that the computer lab would render unwieldy. So the big clunky desktop he'd been foolish enough to buy was his only choice. He was shifting between PubMed, three separate science blogs, and a wildly unsuccessful Google search trying to decipher a certain concept when the muttering began from the opposite bed.

"...controlled by the raw... the warring face... factions of ..."

"Do you mind?" Mohinder snapped.

"Oh. Sorry," Matt said. He flushed. Mohinder turned back to the screen, trying to forget how those cheeks filled with innocent color. How the eyes went round and shivering at being confronted. How Matt was just like a child, so naive, so good-hearted, the sort of innocence you wanted to cherish and rip away at the same time.

"Damn it!" Mohinder got up from the computer in one stiff, violent movement. He whirled toward the wall and smacked it with a fist. It stung all over.

"Geez. Everything OK?"

He tried not to turn. "I can't concentrate."

"I'll try to be quiet, man. Honest. I just have some trouble with the words." Matt closed his book and came to sit on the end of Mohinder's bed. "Mo, dude, you look like you're having a real hard time. You wanna talk about it?"

Why did he have to be on _his_ bed? Mohinder tried desperately not to look at him. Not that he needed to. He knew the expression of concern very well. Achingly sincere, his features soft, his shoulders rounded forward... He turned away again, this time just to hide his reaction. "No, I have no desire to talk about it with you," he said, gritting his teeth and trying to think about molecules or Professor Sanders in 50 years or something else decidedly unsexy.

"Man, I wish you wouldn't do that." He was actually _whining_ at him!

"What? What am I doing?"

"Shutting me out. I'm your roommate. We should talk about stuff." Did he have to be so irritatingly good-hearted?

"You don't want to talk to me," Mohinder snapped, turning back toward him. "I'm sure you have a million other people you'd rather talk to. Don't feel you need to make an effort out of some misguided sense of chivalry. I neither want nor need your pity, so bugger off already and let me be!"

Matt burst out laughing. Immediately Mohinder felt like a fool.

"I'm sorry, man... it's just..." He could barely contain his giggles. "Did you just say _bugger off_? F'real? Do they still say that back in India?" And he let loose with a fresh round of laughter, his head knocking back against the wall. "I'm sorry... it's just... it's great!" He curled up on Mohinder's bed, laughing hiimself silly, clutching his stomach.

Mohinder watched him, both fascinated and horrified. He really was such a child.

Matt wiped his eyes and looked up. Mohinder's frown seemed to sober him somewhat. "I'm sorry, I don't mean to make fun of you," he said. "I know what it's like to be laughed at. I didn't mean it that way."

Mohinder sat down on the bed without saying a word. He wanted to draw up his knees to his chest and just melt into the mattress. Just go away.

"Look, if there is something I'm doing that's driving you up a wall. Or even a lot of things. You've gotta tell me. I can't read minds, you know?"

_Yes. There is the fact that I'm don't think I could come out to you unless I were to come __**on**__ to you. There is the fact that you are impossibly sexy. There is the fact that I will be hiding from you in my own room my entire freshman year, and frankly, I have other things to worry about._

Mohinder wasn't entirely sure where that train of thought came from. He had very real issues with this kid. "I just... I feel like it's obvious this isn't going to work out."

"What isn't?"

"Us."

"_Us?_" Ugh. That look of confusion that reminded Mohinder why he could never be himself in front of him.

"The point is..." Mohinder drew a deep breath. "I think I'm going to request a move."

"Wha-a-a-t?" The sheer shock in Matt's voice threw him. "Without even talking to me about your problems? What the hell kind of guy are you? First of all, you think you're gonna get anyone better than me?"

"Aren't we confident," remarked Mohinder, turning up his nose.

"No! I know I'm a dumbass and a slob. It's just that... well, how do I say this?" His face was going red. "A lot of the guys on campus? Drink. Have sex right in front of you. Listen to loud music, which I know you hate."

"How did you--"

"You sort of glanced at my headphones the first day you moved in." Come to think of it, Mohinder realized, that'd been the first and last time he'd been annoyed by Matt's music. But to think he'd stopped specifically because of one glance...! Who would have thought he'd be that perceptive, let alone that considerate? "Anyway, the point is, there are plenty of geeky science nerds like you out there, sure. But you don't have any guarantee you're not gonna get someone even more obnoxious than I am. With me, you've got a dumbass, sure, but at least I'm a dumbass who cares what his roommate thinks and will go out of his way to make you feel comfortable."

Mohinder sighed. For the first time, he actually felt kind of close to Matt. It was a good start. "Thank you," he said. "I appreciate that."

"So you won't leave?" Mohinder corrected his analogy-- he wasn't a _human_ child. He was a _puppy_. Desperate for affection, afraid to be abandoned.

"Not... yet," he admitted.

"Great!" Matt was tickled pink. Mohinder half-expected him to roll onto his back and demand to be scratched on the belly.

"But may I ask you something?"

"Anything." Just like that, he was serious again.

"Why _do_ you read out loud like that?"

"Oh. Heh." He scratched his head nervously. "I'm kinda dyslexic. Sometimes I have trouble getting the words to stay in place. So that helps. Sometimes."

Mohinder's eyes widened. He felt like such an insensitive idiot. How he wished he hadn't said a word.

"Oh, but don't worry about it!" Matt said, as though anticipating his regret. "I mean, you're a person, too, right? Annoying is annoying. I will make an effort to keep it down. Promise."

Mohinder nodded. "Is there..." he started.

Matt tilted his head curiously.

"Is there anything I do that annoys _you_?"

Matt laughed. "Well. Maybe you could start talking to me? I mean, we don't have to be best friends, but a good morning or good night would kind of be nice once in a while."

For what was perhaps the first time since they'd met, Mohinder couldn't help but smile at him. "I think I can handle that," he said.

* * *

Things got significantly better after that. Mohinder flew into a rage when he saw tissues lying on the ground next to the overflowing garbage, and Matt got pissed when Mohinder saw he was in a foul mood and decided to let him be rather than asking him what was wrong, but at least this time the fights were out loud and right up front instead of being bottled up for days. And even when they weren't fighting, they were talking, and that was worth all the fights in the world.

They became each other's default dinnertime companion. Matt would go on about how badly he wanted to be a cop someday. He'd ask Mohinder a million questions about pre-med, although he seemed to be kind of disappointed when he discovered he was still on the cellular level and thus was not dissecting dead bodies yet. One late night during midterms, Mohinder offered to read a particularly vexing textbook to Matt, and he aced his exam the next day. And complimented Mohinder's accent. Mohinder had no idea what he was talking about-- it was Matt who had the accent. They laughed about it. It was actually almost a friendship.

Then something happened that changed everything.

A girl named Janice had been coming onto Matt something fierce. She was in his psychology class, and she'd tried several times to get up to his room. Matt, being the stickler for the rules that he was, had told her repeatedly that he was going to respect the dormwide ban on non-studying visits from members of the opposite sex after seven o'clock-- a rule that everyone else trampled on mercilessly. (Like the security guard had any way of knowing if you were really studying!) But all of this happened in hushed tones or in class, and Mohinder knew none of it.

One night, as Mohinder was leaving the building to go get a snack, he overheard her talking with the security guard.

"Please, it's only nine! There's no reason he has to sign me in. Look at your logs. Matt Parkman. P-a-r-k..."

"I can sign her in," volunteered Mohinder. "Matt's my roommate."

She turned on him like he had just floated down from heaven. "Hey, thanks! You're the best." He filled out the form and went on his way, figuring he'd just saved Matt a trip downstairs to vouch for her.

He was wrong. Matt was furious when he returned. Mohinder took one look at his scowl and dropped the grocery bags full of munchies. A Cracker Jack sailor peeked innocently up from his toppled box.

"You let her in, didn't you?" Matt said. His face was red, his lips tight with rage. He didn't wait for a reply. "You did, didn't you?" he demanded as he slammed Mohinder up against the wall, fists at his shoulders.

"Matt, what the... what the hell!?" Mohinder tried to shake free, but Matt was too livid, too strong. "Yes, I let her in-- what the hell are you so mad about?"

"I've been telling her and telling her," he seethed, "that you and I follow the rules. And you have to go and blow it!" He let go and paced to the center of the room, leaving Mohinder gasping for breath against the wall.

"Wait a moment," he said between panicked wheezes, "you're upset because I broke the _rules_? I know you're an aspiring policeman, but don't you think that's a little excessive?"

"Of course it's not about the rules!" Matt roared. "It's about having a decent excuse!"

"An excuse?"

"For keeping her away! Jesus, Mohinder, are you blind in one eye and stupid in the other? Those rules don't apply to me!"

This was the polar opposite of everything Matt had ever said to him. Mohinder sat down on his bed, massaging his poor bruised shoulder with his other hand. "I don't know what you're on about," he complained, "but I'm tempted to ask who you are and what you've done with my roommate."

"Aw, jeez--" Matt did a certain thing with his hand behind his head when he was frustrated, and Mohinder always found it ridiculously adorable. He tried not to look. "I thought-- no, never mind that. I just _hoped_ by now you'd figured it out and chose not to say anything. Like you usually do. I guess I should have come right out and told you."

"Not all of us have your detective skills," Mohinder remarked, relieved that Matt's anger seemed to have dissolved. "So what is it you should have told me?"

Matt looked out the window. He looked at the floor. He looked at Mohinder briefly and then looked away.

Mohinder watched this, fascinated. This was the same guy who'd told him to say whatever was on his mind? _Seriously?_ It was like they'd switched bodies all of a sudden. Matt (Mohinder tried not to think about the concept of Matt being in his body) was over here, trying to get him to open up. And Mohinder (ditto for the opposite situation) was over there, pacing by the window, stony-faced and frustrated.

Finally, Matt sat down. "OK. I think this is the easiest way to do this," he said. "Um, the rules say you don't have girls up to your room at night unless you're studying, right?"

"Right." Mohinder nodded.

"So these rules. They don't apply to me." Matt waited and watched his face.

Dawn didn't seem to break. "Because?" Mohinder prompted him.

"Because, I'm not going to _have_ a girl in my room if it's not to study."

"Why--"

And then Mohinder stopped talking and gaped.

"_Now_ you might want to see about moving, I guess," Matt muttered, turning away.

The words fell out of his mouth and clattered loudly onto the floor. "You're _gay_?"

"Thanks, you want to tell the whole floor?" Matt snapped. "Yeah. I'm gay. Thanks for finally picking up on it."

"And you didn't tell me this _why_?"

"I don't tell _anybody_ this!" he hissed. "It's kind of hard for me to talk about, in case you hadn't noticed."

Mohinder wasn't sure whether to sing or scream. This was beyond unexpected. He supposed he should be happy. After all, it was one more thing they had in common. But he was suddenly consumed by dread. Could he keep this up? Living with a guy he knew could (if only in his feverish dreams) potentially become more than a friend to him? How could he keep control of himself if he woke up and saw that lazy grin in the bed across the way? And how could he survive knowing that if he were to wander into that bed, he'd be met not with the old familiar revulsion but with simple rejection?

No. It was hopeless.

"I see," he said stiffly. "Thank you for telling me the truth."

"You're OK with it?" Matt said hopefully.

"Yes, of course," Mohinder lied. "Don't worry about it."

"Don't let that crazy girl in here again," Matt pleaded, grinning.

"I won't. I promise." Mohinder forced a smile onto his face. But his mind was busy making plans. It was clear what he had to do.

* * *

A half-week later, Matt came home from classes to find Mohinder gone. All of his things had vanished. Except for a note on the ugly, bare striped mattress, it was as if he'd never been there.

Matt wandered over to pick it up. There was one line scrawled on the torn-out sheet of notebook paper:

_It's not what you think._

It wasn't even signed.

"Like hell it's not," Matt said, tears prickling his eyes. He kicked at the mattress, and it jumped like a punching bag. Without saying a word! Without a single clue! Without a goodbye!

Matt looked for him. The directory said he'd moved off campus and hadn't registered a forwarding address. Student Affairs wouldn't give him a phone number. He didn't answer his e-mails. Matt had to resign himself to the sad truth: Mohinder didn't want to be found. Whatever tenuous friendship they'd built together was over. Just a passing dream. The first guy Matt had ever felt really understood him, liked him for who and what he was, accepted him and was willing to work with him to build trust and friendship-- he'd turned out to be just another bigoted asshole like all the others. Another guy who wasn't even willing to give it a chance.

And yet Matt couldn't hate him. He'd liked him too much. Mohinder had been great fun, a perfect guy to spend an evening with. A low-stress, low-stakes partner in crime who was equally comfortable discussing politics and watching football. His company had been a soothing counterpoint to the stressful world of freshman year. And now Matt was spending his days without that relief.

They were hell, those days. Mornings without the smell of tea. Dinnertime alone, or worse, with acquaintances he didn't much care about. Evenings and late, lonely nights without anyone to talk to. And through it all, the blank walls and empty mattress, laughing at him. Reminding him of what and whom he'd lost.

It was almost too much. No, scratch that, it _was_ too much. Matt would be damned if he'd ever come out to anyone ever again. The closet was looking more and more comfortable by the day. Hell, he was even considering calling up Janice.

Then there was a knock on his door.

"Mohinder," Matt said blankly as the face in the hallway was illuminated by the room's light.

"Hi," Mohinder said blankly.

"C-- come on in," Matt said. He felt a little like he was in a dream.

Mohinder walked into the room, looked around. "It's so empty," he commented.

"I thought about putting up some posters up, but they felt..." _like they weren't you._ "...kinda wrong, you know?"

"I just figured that by now you'd be using my bed as a desk, or laundry basket, or trash can, or something." Mohinder tried to smile, but even Matt could see it was futile.

"Hey, you, uh, trained me well," Matt was at such a loss. His emotions were churning so hard, he was numb just out of survival instinct. "Not to toss stuff on your side."

Mohinder nodded. They stood there, looking at the garish stripes and white walls.

"Matt," Mohinder began, "I came here to explain."

"What's there to explain?" Matt tried to stay casual. "You obviously couldn't handle it. Your loss, man. Did you get a geeky pre-med roommate just like you? The kind you wanted in the beginning? Or did you score a single or something?"

"I told you it wasn't that."

His anger rushed to take command. "No, you didn't tell me. You _wrote it down._" Matt faced him, jabbed a finger into the center of his chest with each word. "I should have known you'd be too chickenshit to even say how you really felt out loud."

"I left because if I had told you the truth, you would have asked me to leave, and I didn't have a place to go!" Mohinder said, the shame and remorse turning his voice to a keen cry.

"You _left_ so you could be free to tell me the real reason you _left_? Do me a favor, Mohinder. Never commit a crime. Because your alibis SUCK." He turned away, unable to face those pleading eyes. "Well, now you have a place to go, so go on, say what you came here to say. Tell me I'm a freak of nature and you left because you were afraid I'd sodomize you in your sleep and we'd fall into the lake of fire together. It's nothing I haven't heard before. Go on."

"I left because I'm in love with you."

Matt stopped.

As in stopped moving. As in stopped breathing. As in, his heart stopped pumping blood. He could have been declared clinically dead at that moment.

Then everything started up again, in double time, and he was flushed, feverish, hyperventilating. "You WHAT?" He turned to face him. He couldn't not.

Tears were welling up in Mohinder's eyes. "I left because I fell in love with you the moment I met you," he said, a pleading ache in his voice. His eyes held Matt's hypnotically with their wavering wetness. "It was so much easier to live with you if I thought you were straight, because then anything I felt would never happen and I could just be another poor sap suffering through an unrequited love," he said. "But I couldn't handle it knowing that you _could_ care for me but just _didn't._"

The words were pouring out instead of the tears, which stayed glassy and contained in his eyes. "Homophobia can be such a convenient excuse," he said, spreading out the fingers of his hands and staring at them as though they contained the words he was desperately searching for. "It's so much easier to just fool yourself into thinking everyone around you would be disgusted if they knew. That way, you can stay unhurt. You never have to put yourself out there, allow someone to get to know you. I could deal with being rejected because I was a man," he said. "I couldn't deal with being rejected because I was _me._"

Matt was shaking his head back and forth. His hand was at his mouth as though holding words behind his lips to keep them from slipping out. Mohinder was silent, watching him, waiting.

Then one of the corners of Matt's mouth turned upward. And he snickered.

Inch by inch, the smile widened. And still shaking his head back and forth, he let his head fall forward, gazed down at his shoes, chuckling. "Oh, man," he said, and as he went on his voice crescendoed to a full-throated roar. "Oh, man, oh, man, oh, man. You know what? I think I might have done the same thing. Jesus. This is why you shouldn't do stuff without talking, you big idiot!!" His head flew back upward, and his eyes locked with Mohinder's. "I'm _crazy_ about you! Have been for weeks!" He laughed loudly. "Why do you think I didn't tell _you_ until I had to? I've been terrified!"

Mohinder was still looking at him like he hadn't said a single word. His face didn't register any change.

"Mohinder. Mo. Dude. You in there?" Matt came over and took his hands. The warmth was like a jolt of electricity. Mohinder started; he opened his mouth as though to speak, then shut it again; the tears welling in his eyes began to snake down his cheeks. He was the picture of confusion, all round lips and round eyes.

Finally his voice began to work again. "Y-- you--" He looked around the room, as though for hidden cameras or some other indication that this was all a joke. "Matt, I--"

"Me too," said Matt. This time his smile was gentle.

"I'm not going to move back in," Mohinder said abruptly.

"What?!"

"I'm an old-fashioned gentleman. I'd prefer to take things slow." He turned up his nose again in that haughty way. But there was laughter in his eyes.

"OK, so I'll take you out to dinner, then? Ask your mom if I can give you my pin?" Matt's lips quirked.

"Not quite that slow," Mohinder smiled, his first genuine smile of the night. Matt wiped it away again, with a long, slow, measured kiss that melted on his lips like warm chocolate. When he pulled away, Mohinder staggered a little bit.

"Ya know," Matt said, his arms going around Mohinder's waist to steady him, "even if you're not moving back in, Student Affairs told me that mattress is staying empty until the end of the semester."

"I have no desire to use that mattress," Mohinder said slyly.

"No," whispered his once and future roommate, kissing him gently. "We'll use mine."


End file.
